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MEMOIRS 



OF 



FREDERICK 



":!•. 



AND 



MARGARET KLOPSTOCK. 



TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

Published by Philip H. Nicklin and Co. Baltimore; Farrand, Mallerj 

and Co. Boston; Jacob Green, Albany; Edward Earle, and 

B. B. Hopkins and Co. Philadelphia. 

Fry and Kam merer, Printer*. 

1810. 



>-r 






ADVERTISEMENT. 

THE translations contained in this volume, 
with the exception of a few pages, were finish- 
ed by Miss Smith in the year 1805; and 
the Preface was read and approved by her. 
Some letters in Mr. Klopstock's publication 
are omitted, to avoid repetition; as well as se- 
veral passages in those which are inserted in 
this collection; particularly such as contain re- 
marks on the Messiah, as it was thought they 
would appear dry and uninteresting to those 
who are unacquainted with that admirable 
poem. In taking the liberty to omit such parts 
of the work as seemed least likely to please the 
English reader, the Editor only fulfils the re- 
quest of her lamented friend, as expressed in 
her letters on this subject.* 

Bath, Dec. 1808. 

* See Fragments, p. 177. 



PREFACE. 

THE Letters of Margaret Kiopstock, 
printed in the correspondence of Mr. Richard- 
son, have been so much admired, that I flatter 
myself the volume now offered to the public 
will want no other recommendation, than an 
assurance that it contains the genuine writings 
of that most amiable woman, which were pub- 
lished at Hamburg in the year 1759, by her 
afflicted husband. To the translation of that 
publication is prefixed an account of the life 
and writings of Mr. Kiopstock, with some let- 
ters and papers which tend to illustrate the cha- 
racter of that great poet. 

Kiopstock, the Milton of Germany, the pride 
of his country, whose piety and virtue, still 
more than his talents, made him an honour to 
human nature, — Kiopstock is scarcely known 
in England; while on the stage, and in the clo- 

A 2 



set, the principles and morals of the rising 
generation are corrupted by an inundation of 
German literature, in which the boldest flights 
of genius, the noblest sentiments, and the most 
interesting feelings, are too often employed to 
betray the unsuspecting heart. Many an admi- 
rable pen has been employed to counteract the 
mischiefs which such writings are calculated to 
produce, and may success attend their labours! 
I have taken a different path in order to attain 
the same end, and will endeavour to make vice 
odious, by exhibiting virtue in her genuine 
form. I offer to the public no imaginary cha- 
racters, but a picture drawn from the life. 
Klopstock is not here presented to the reader 
as the first poet of the age, but as one of the 
best and most amiable of men; the tenderest 
husband, and the kindest friend. But this is not 
all: he appears in a far higher character. Fallen 
in an instant from the height of human felicity, 
called to resign such a blessing as few of his 
fellow mortals ever possessed, — his exalted 
mind seemed marked by providence to show 
the triumph of genuine Christianity. In this lit- 
tle collection of letters, we penetrate into the 
deepest recesses of his heart: we see how much 
he loved and was beloved. His warm imagina- 



Vll 

tion and acute feelings made him peculiarly 
susceptible of pleasure and of pain. Blest with 
the hand and heart of one of the most excellent 
of women, he was in every respect " happy 
past the common lot:" when he was called to 
prove to the world that no trial is too great for 
christian fortitude to support. With hopes al- 
ways fixed on the invisible world, he looked 
forward to that happy moment, when those who 
have been separated on earth shall meet again 
in heaven to part no more. 

" Strong in this hope, his comforters he comforts." 

Young. 

The love of God which glowed in his heart, 
taught him to rest with filial confidence on His 
supporting hand, fully convinced that all will 
work together for good to those who feel that 
love as it ought to be felt by a christian. To 
the cold scepticism which now assumes the 
venerable name of philosophy, his sentiments 
may perhaps appear absurd and irrational. To 
such philosophers every thing which they do 
not believe is superstition, everv thing which 
they do not feel is enthusiasm. But leaving 
them to the darkness which they prefer to the 
clear light of revelation, I wish to obviate ob- 



Vlll 

jections which may possibly be made, by very 
sincere and pious christians, to some of the 
sentiments expressed by Klopstock and his 
Margaret with regard to the nature and em- 
ployment of the Angels, and the state of the 
soul after death. On subjects which are pla- 
ced so far beyond the reach of human reason, 
and on which the word of God gives us only 
such information as is calculated to animate our 
hopes, but not to gratify our curiosity, it may 
perhaps be thought improper to indulge the 
imagination in groundless and unfounded spe- 
culations; and Letters from the Dead to the 
living, or from the Living to the Dead, may be 
received with a smile of contempt, or with a 
frown of disapprobation. From this hasty de- 
cision 1 venture to appeal to those, and those 
only, whose hearts have felt the pain of losing 
what they fondly loved, and who are supported 
by the hope of an eternal union in a happier 
world. Such readers (and in this vale of tears 
there are many such) will view with indulgence 
the little arts by which the mourner tried to 
soothe his grief. They will not suppose that he 
expected his letters should really be read by 
his departed wife, but they will feel what he 
felt, and willingly yield to a sweet illusion. 



IX 

It is true that we know little of the invisible 
world, of the happy spirits who surround the 
throne of the Great Creator, or of the state of 
those who are released from the corruptible 
body, and from all the sorrows of life; but do we 
therefore doubt their existence? and is it crimi- 
nal to indulge the thoughts which are so natural 
to the heir of immortality, and to conjecture 
what certainly we cannot prove? We know 
from the highest authority, that there are mi- 
nistering spirits, sent to minister to those who 
shall be heirs of salvation; and it seems not im- 
probable that they may, as Klopstock supposes, 
be peculiarly attached to individuals, and being 
united to them by a friendship, of which earthly 
attachments give us only an imperfect idea, 
that they may be employed to protect and guard 
the objects of their care. This is " a doctrine, 
which has prevailed more or less in every age 
of the church, which is without question most 
soothing and consolatory to human nature, and 
is certainly countenanced by several passages 
of holy writ, as well as by the authority of 
Origen, Tertullian, and other eminent fathers 
and commentators."* This opinion is likewise 

* Lectures on the Gospel of St. Matthew, by Bishop 
Porteus, vol. ii. p. 82, 83. 



supported by Grotius, Bishop Andrews, Bishop 
Home,* and other eminent divines; and it is not 
censured by one of the brightest luminaries of 
our own age and nation, whose words I have 
just quoted; and who adds, with the mild wis- 
dom, and truly Christian liberality, so conspi- 
cuous in all his writings, ." No one that che- 
rishes this notion can be charged with weakness 
or superstition; and if it should be at last an 
error, it is (as Cicero says of the immortality of 
the soul) so delightful an error, that we cannot 
easily suffer it to be wrested from us." 

We know that when the body returns to the 
earth as it was, the spirit returns to God who 
gave it; and it is a pleasing thought, that friends 
thus separated from us by death may still 
watch over us with tender concern, may still 
behold, and perhaps assist, our humble endea- 
vours to perform the will of Him who reserves 
for us such happiness as they now enjoy. We 
may be mistaken in this idea; but it seems to 
be an innocent illusion; and it has afforded com- 
fort to many wretched mourners, on whom un- 
feeling scepticism has no comfort to bestow. 

* See his admirable Sermon on the Existence and 
Employment of Angels, vol. iv. p. 31 1. 



XI 

Such speculations tend to disengage us fi om 
sensual pleasures, and to strengthen our con- 
nexion with the invisible world; they animate 
our exertions to attain the happiness which is 
not to be found in this life, and they reconcile 
us to those dispensations of Providence which 
often call us to resign our highest enjoyments, 
and our most virtuous attachments; which 
command us to forsake all, and follow Him, 
who, for the joy that was set before him, en- 
dured the cross. That such was their effect on 
the exalted mind of Klopstock, must be evident 
to all who are acquainted with his writings; — 
and if this little publication should increase the 
number of those who study his works with the 
attention they deserve, I flatter myself that I 
am doing an important service to my country; 
and (to borrow the words of the elegant trans- 
lator of Oberon) that not the lovers of poetry 
only, but whoever loves his neighbour, and 
adores his God, will owe no trivial obligation 
to the editor who makes him better acquainted 
with the author of " The Messiah." This I will 
endeavour to do by throwing together such par- 
ticulars as I have been enabled to collect, of 
the life, the character, and the sentiments, of 
this extraordinary man. 



Xll 

Of his lovely and accomplished wife it is 
unnecessary to say more than that she was, as 
Cramer calls her, " Klopstock in feminine 
beauty." Her picture has been already pre- 
sented to the English reader, drawn by her own 
hand, in her letters to Richardson, with such 
enchanting softness, and such beautiful simpli- 
city, that it is superfluous to add any thing on 
the subject. Those letters show what she was 
while she was the happy wife of Klopstock; and 
some of those which are now presented to the 
public, will show what she was in the last 
dreadful moments of her life; when, with a 
martyr's firmness, she resigned her pure and 
virtuous spirit into the hands of her Creator. 



MEMOIRS* 



OF 



Mr. KLOPSTOCK 



Frederick Gottlieb klopstock was 

born in Quedlinburg, July 2, 1724, He was 
the eldest of eleven children; six sons, and five 
daughters. His father, who was a magistrate 
of Quedlinburg, and afterwards farmed the 
bailiwic of Friedeburg, was a singular character; 
but with some peculiarities, he possessed many 
virtues; and united great goodnature with ex- 
treme uprightness of principle, and uncommon 

* Compiled from papers which were communicated by Dr. 
Mumssen, and translated by Miss Smith, to which are added ex- 
tracts from ** Klopstock Ei* und iiber ihn," by Professor Cram- 
mer; Hamburg-, 1780: and from a Life of Klopstock, published 
in the Monthly Magazine. 



14 
firmness and resolution. His eccentricities ap- 
pear to have had no serious influence on the 
education of young Klopstock. He left the 
powers of his body and mind to unfold them- 
selves freely, unrestrained by severity; and his 
boyish years flowed on in an uninterrupted 
stream of happiness, resulting from a proper 
distribution of his time between serious busi- 
ness and innocent relaxation. In a beautiful 
country, on the banks of the Saal, the poet pas- 
sed his early years, under the guidance of a 
private tutor. He was employed during some 
hours every day in learning the elements of the 
languages, and he devoted the remaining part 
of his time, with youthful ardour, to athletic 
exercises. When he was fit for a public school, 
in his thirteenth year, his father took him to the 
gymnasium at Quedlinburg. Here Klopstock 
passed three years, unmarked by fame, and 
rather unfolding his corporeal than his mental 
powers: but the remembrance of those unfet- 
tered years afforded him, ever after, the sweetest 
enjoyment. Even in his old age, he intreated 
all his friends who travelled through Quedlin- 
burg, to visit the play-yard where he had en- 
joyed those early pleasures which are never 



15 

forgotten, and which he loved to describe even 
to the minutest circumstance. 

It appears that while he attended the gymna- 
sium, he had in some degree neglected his stu- 
dies, for when speaking of his intended removal 
to the college, he says, " My father now repre- 
sented to me that I must be particularly- indus- 
trious, as the time of my remaining at the col- 
lege would depend upon the success of my first 
examination, and on the consequent rank which 
I should obtain in the classes. I followed his 
advice, and again assiduously applied myself to 
Latin and Greek; and I still remember how 
frequently I walked up and down my garret in 
the heat of the sun, and studied in the sweat .of 
my brow." His introduction at the. etfiiege is 
thus described by Mr. Cramer. 6 His father 
now took him to the college, and the examina- 
tion was arranged. The rector conducted him 
into an apartment, and gave him an exercise to 
write, leaving with him Weismann's Lexicon, 
and a grammar. It was to be completed in 
three hours, and then he was to ring the bell; 
but he rung before the appointed time. The 
rector appeared: " Is it finished already?" said 
he; then cast his eye over it and sent him into 
the play- ground, where the scholars assembled," 



16 
as usual, to welcome and to ridicule the new 
corner. One of the elder ones came to him 
with a scornful air, and said, " K-1-o-p-Klop- 
stock, is that your name?" Upon which his 
uncommon name was immediately echoed and 
reechoed, and laughed at. This enraged him, 
and going up to the boy, with a menacing air 
and stern look, he answered, " Yes, my name is 
Klopstock:" and from this time he was never 
assailed with any raillery, particularly as the 
rector highly applauded his exercise, and im- 
mediately gave him the highest place in the 
third class. 

Klopstock was in his sixteenth year when he 
proceeded from the gymnasium to the college, 
where 'Ms. character as a man and as a poet be- 
gan to be displayed in a very advantageous 
point of view. The rector Freytag deserves 
particular notice amongst his teachers: he elu- 
cidated the ancients with a precision and taste 
which were very rare at that time: he sought to 
make his scholars familiar, not only with the 
language, but with the spirit of the writer. 
Under this gentleman the industrious youth 
acquired perfect knowledge of the classics, en- 
tered into all the beauties of the ancient authors, 
and while he followed with rapture the bold 



17 

flights of their original genius, he fed a flame 
within himself which was soon to burst forth in 
full lustre. He read few books, but they were the 
best; and he read with acute discrimination 
and unwearied attention. Virgil was his favour- 
ite poet; and while he saw in him the model of 
perfect beauty, he felt a strong impulse to imi r 
tate him. He applied himself very diligently to 
compositions both in prose and verse; and some 
pastorals, according to the fashionable taste of 
the time, preceded one of the noblest plans that 
ever entered the soul of a poet. 

At this early period of his life, Klopstock 
formed the resolution of writing an epic poem 3 
which till then had not existed in the German lan- 
guage. He tells us himself how this idea arose 
in his mind. His enthusiastic admiration of 
Virgil; the glory he promised himself in being 
the first who should produce a work like the 
iEneid in the language of his native country; 
the warmth of patriotism which early animated 
him to raise the fame of German literature in 
this particular to a level with that of other Eu- 
ropean countries; the just indignation he felt 
in reading the works of a Frenchman, who had 
denied to the Germans any talent for poetry; 
all combined, with the consciousness of his own 



18 

superior powers, to spur him on to the execu- 
tion of his exalted plan. 

In his beautiful oration on quitting the col- 
lege at Quedlinburg, after a very ingenious dis- 
sertation on the state of poetry in Germany, he 
expresses his idea of the talents requisite for 
the composition of an epic poem, in the fol- 
lowing words. " If amongst our present poets 
there may not be one who is destined to em- 
bellish his native country with this honour; 
hasten to arise, O glorious day, which shall 
bring such a poet to light! And thou sun which 
shall first behold, and with mild beams enlight- 
en him, approach! May virtue, and wisdom, 
with the celestial Muse, nurse him with the 
tenderest care! May the whole field of nature 
be displayed before him, and the whole magni- 
ficence of our adorable religion! To him may 
even the range of future ages be no longer 
wrapt in impenetrable darkness! And by these 
instructors may he be rendered worthy of im- 
mortal fame, and of the approbation of God 
himself, whom above all he will praise!" On 
this passage Cramer makes the following ob- 
servation. ' How much would any other per- 
son have found to say of himself on this occa- 
sion; but he, with his whole plan in his. head 



19 
and in his heart, and a determined resolution 
to execute it, and to be that poet of whom he 

here speaks; he says nothing. 9 Klopstock 

was long undecided in the choice of his sub- 
ject. He sought out some hero in the German 
history, and had once fixed on the emperor 
Henry, the founder of the freedom of his na- 
tive city;* but after choosing and rejecting 
many different subjects, he at last formed the 
plan of his Messiah; and this preference was 
given even before he was acquainted with Mil- 
ton, whose Paradise Lost became, soon after 
that period, his favourite and almost uninter- 
rupted study. 

An interesting account of Klopstock, when, 
very young, was inserted in Bodmer's Letters 
on Criticism, and reprinted by Cramer, in the 
year 1780, with the approbation of the poet. 
Mr. Cramer speaks of it in the following 
manner. i I think it cannot be wrong to insert 
here this letter of our excellent Bodmer, since 
it is very worthy to be known, and is in a col- 
lection of pieces which are no longer read. 

* Henry the first, surnamed the Fowler, who began to reign 
in the year 920. He conquered the Huns, and afterwards made 
a successful war on the Venedi, who inhabited Saxony. He 
died in 93S;. 



20 
Klopstock himself is, I know, well satisfied 
with it; and it is very remarkable that Bodmer 
should have drawn such an animated portrait 
of him previous to their personal acquaintance. 
I can venture to assert, that if we devest this 
representation of mere fiction and ornament, 
we shall find much truth which Bodmer has 
blended with it.' — From this account I ven- 
ture to make a few extracts, omitting conver- 
sations which are probably fictitious. 

" In his father's library are many sermons, 
and ten Bibles, but not a single poet. He soon 
distinguished the Bible from all the rest, still 
more through his own taste, than on account 
of his father's earnest recommendations. He 
made it his constant pocket companion, not 
merely as a duty, but for pleasure. While yet 
in his childhood, he was so well acquainted 
with the phraseology of the Hebrew language, 
and the figurative manner of representing 
things, which he found in that book, that he 
used it unknown to himself, wherever he would 
express any thing with earnestness. — In a walk 
with his father, in a fine spring morning, before 
he was quite fourteen years old, they had sat 
down under an oak, and a cool western breeze 
blew on them. His first words were, * All around 



31 

the oak receives us in his shadow. Soft airs 
breathe on us, like a whisper of the presence of 
God.' Then again he said, ' How peaceful 
grows the tender moss, here on the cool earth! 
The hills lie round about in lovely twilight, as 
though new made, and blooming like Eden.' 
. "At that time the strong representations of 
inanimate nature, which he found in the poeti- 
eal books of Job and the Prophets, affected him 
most deeply, and he was often heard, when he 
awoke in the morning, repeating whole chap- 
ters with a strong accent, as a poet might do 
who was reciting his own work. The descrip- 
tions were so strongly impressed on his mind, 
that when the things themselves came before 
his eyes, he would often say they were not new 
to him; he had already seen them in the Psalms 
and the Prophets. When he approached to 
manhood, the pathetic passages took the same 
strong hold on his heart, as the glittering and 
magnificent images had before taken on his 
fancy. A promise that fallen man should find 
mercy, drew tears from his eyes; a trace of the 
immortality of the soul threw him into a trans- 
port of gratitude. Religion did not remain a 
mere speculation of the brain; it was a clear 
view of the greatness and glory of the Messiah; 



22 
it was the pure feeling of love and grateful 
adoration. From this turn of mind sprung a 
style of writing full of poetry, before he had 
ever seen a verse, or knew any thing of prosody. 
He was a poet, while neither he nor his father 
suspected it. I have seen a letter he wrote, before 
he had attained his seventeenth year, to a youth 
of his own age, who seems to have been his 
only intimate acquaintance: it contained the 
following expressions. ' My friend! image of 
my mind! whom an invisible Son of Heaven 
raises up, with me, to higher hopes than those 
of the human herd; dost thou look xm the ten- 
der youth of our friendship with that cheerful 
eye, which makes the innocence of youthful 
days cloudless like the days of eternity? What 
dost thou feel in the expressions wherewith thy 
noble heart consecrates to thy friend, more 
than merely a verbal friendship? Let us so en- 
noble it by the rectitude of our minds, that He 
who pours down his blessings from heaven, 
may look with pleasure on it. 5 " 

In the autumn of the year 1745, Klopstock 
left the college at Quedlinburg, and removed 
to the university at Jena. His intention was to 
study theology, but the dull disputes of scho- 
lastic divines did not accord with the state of 



23 

his mind at that period. He wanted no evidence 
to prove the truth of a religion which had taken 
entire possession of his heart, and he could not 
listen with patience to the cavils of infidels, or 
the cold reasonings of metaphysicians; and af- 
ter a tedious half year, the ardent youth, whose 
mind was accustomed to better nourishment, 
removed with his relation Schmidt to the uni- 
versity of Leipsic. 

During the few months spent at Jena, he 
had, however, in the stillness of his closet, 
been realizing some part of his intended plan 
by tracing out the three first cantos of the 
Messiah. He composed these three cantos in 
prose, but his performance greatly displeased 
him. He was fired with a laudable indignation 
at feeling himself so inferior in harmony to his 
great models Homer and Virgil. Lost in his 
own reflections, he would frequently wander 
up and down the country round Jena, and in 
one of these solitary walks he came to a deter- 
mination to imitate the great poets of antiquity 
in the structure of their verse. In a few hours 
he completed a page of hexameters, and from 
that time decided on composing his poem in 
this measure. Thus he was the first who intro- 
duced into German poetry a metre which was 



24 
supposed to be unattainable in that language, 
and he afterwards triumphantly defended this 
mode of versification, both by example and ar- 
gument. 

In the spring of the year 1746, he carried 
with him to Leipsic the three first books of the 
Messiah, which astonished and delighted a few 
ingenious friends to whom he showed them. 
Amongst these early friends of Klopstock were 
Cramer, Gartner, Schlegel, Giesecke, Zacharia, 
Gellert, and Rabener. Schmidt, the relation as 
well as the bosom friend of the poet, had ac- 
companied him -to Leipsic. These young fa- 
vourites of the Muses had formed themselves 
into a literary society, in order to improve their 
taste by mutual criticisms on their various es- 
says, of which the best were printed in a paper 
entitled "Bremen Contributions." Klopstock 
was admitted into their small society, and the 
Messiah was made known to them in conse- 
quence of a scene which is thus described by 
Mr. Cramer. " In Klopstock's apartment the 
Messiah first came to light. After the first com- 
pliments between him and my father, Schmidt 
proceeded immediately to the execution of apian 
he had formed. He turned the discourse to li- 
terary subjects, spoke of the English with ex- 



25 

cessive praise, and then adverted to the Ger- 
mans, and particularly to the contributors,* of 
whom he spoke in the manner that induced my 
father to take the part of his friends, but with 
the greatest moderation, according to his well 
known character. He said, they knew very well 
that they were not perfect, but they endea- 
voured to become so. They employed all pos- 
sible severity of criticism towards themselves; 
they .... Schmidt interrupted him, and said, 
with a smile, " Yes, yes, severity of criticism 
is very well; but genius, not one German pos- 
sesses that; the English, — the English." My 
father was preparing to reply, when Klopstock, 
who till then had been only a spectator, grew 
warm and interposed. * Dear Mr. Cramer, 
what will you think of my friend? But he only 
pretends to insult you. When you shall become 
more acquainted with his manner, you will find 
that he is not in earnest.' " What, (cried 
Schmidt,) does he say so? Do not believe him. 
He is the most severe critic amongst us. If 
you did but know how malicious he is!" Then 
starting up, with an arch look, and a firm grasp, 
he drew the manuscript of the Messiah out of 

* The Literary Society who published the Bremen Contri- 
butions. 



26 
a chest. " There, there, (said he,) now you 
shall hear something." The affair now became 
serious. Klopstock, whose plan of secrecy was 
at once overturned by this treachery , sprung up, 
his countenance glowing, and said, ' Schmidt, 
I do not know you at this moment.' He strug- 
gled with him, endeavouring to snatch away 
the manuscript; but Schmidt, who became 
more and more resolute, paid no regard to his 
opposition, kept him off with one hand, and 
with the other held up the papers, like Caesar 
when he swam across the Nile. My father, 
whose curiosity was now strongly excited, en- 
treated; Klopstock protested; but Schmidt be- 
gan to read. Still however Schmidt contrived 
a little mischief; for though he usually read 
well, he now took pains to do it ill, that he 
might if possible induce my father to find fault 
with the work, or at least to listen coldly, in 
order that his own triumph over the contribu- 
tors might be complete. But my father was too 
sharp- sighted to be deceived. Scarcely had 
Schmidt read one page, before he interrupted 
him with much animation. ' Mr. Schmidt, I 
must tell you, that should be read quite in a 
different manner.' " You have taken the words 
out of my mouth, (said Klopstock;) and now, 



27 
Schmidt, since the secret is betrayed, give it 
to me. I will read it myself." He now took 
courage, and read the whole first canto, and he 
particularly excelled in reading hexameters. 
The termination of this adventure may easily 
be imagined. Hostilities with Schmidt were 
presently laid aside; my father received the 
poem as it ought to be received, expressed to 
Klopstock his warmest approbation, and said 
there was a society of friends, to whom it would 
afford the greatest pleasure, if he might be per- 
mitted to impart it to them, and that it should 
remain a secret with them. The heart of our 
dear friend was already gained, and he con- 
sented. My father took the poem first to Gart- 
ner, then to the others, and in consequence was 
sent, by them all, with an invitation to Klop- 
stock to join their society. He accepted it. 
They regarded each other at the first moment 
as friends, and they were really so, for amongst 
such beings tedious ceremonies are useless." 
In the two following years he produced many 
excellent odes, which, together with the three 
cantos of the Messiah, appeared at first in the 
Bremen Contributions. It may with truth be 
observed, that at this period Germany was not 
prepared for the reception of a poet of so su- 



28 
perior a cast; the public taste was not sufficiently 
formed to relish the lofty flight of Klopstock's 
genius; but his cantos were read with the high- 
est warmth of admiration by those who pos- 
sessed a genuine taste for poetry, and their 
applause was sufficient to animate the poet in 
the prosecution of his sublime plan. 

Klopstock's residence at Leipsic became 
unpleasant, to him after he had lost his chosen 
friends, who gradually left the university. The 
warm and tender attachment that bound him to 
this estimable circle in Leipsic, formed one of 
the sweetest recollections of his past life, on 
which he dwelt with peculiar pleasure even in 
his old age. When he afterwards contempla- 
ted in pensive sadness each of these beloved 
friends sinking successively into the grave be- 
fore him, his only comfort was the remembrance 
of what they had once been to him, and the 
prospect of what they would be in a happier 
world. 

In the course of the year 1748, Klopstock 
left Leipsic, to reside at Langensalza, in the 
house of a delation named Weiss, whose chil- 
dren he undertook to instruct. This is an in- 
teresting period in the life of Klopstock, as he 
now became acquainted with the beautiful sis» 



29 
ter of his friend Schmidt, who is the subject of 
some of his most admired poems, in which she 
is distinguished by the name of Fanny. He 
never had courage to make proposals of mar- 
riage, as he thought he had no prospect of suc- 
cess, and the lady was soon afterwards united 
to another. Many of his odes and elegies, as 
well as his letters to Bodmer, prove the purity 
and ardour of this youthful passion; and the 
pain of not seeing himself beloved, added to the 
influence of severe application on his health, 
conspired to throw him into a deep melancholy, 
which lasted for some time, and threw a dark 
colouring over all his poetic effusions. It is pro- 
bably to this period of Klopstock's life that 
Mr. Cramer alludes, when, speaking of hi* 
cheerful disposition in the latter part of his life, 
he makes the following observations. " I could 
wish to know from what cause it arises, that in 
many persons who are remarkable for sensi- 
bility, and strong powers of imagination, pre- 
cisely at that period of life when the body is in 
its greatest vigour, and the animal spirits ate the 
most lively; when the prospect of all the de- 
lights of honour and friendship is most fair and 
blooming, and when the termination of these 

enjoyments appears at the greatest distance;— 

c 2 



30 
that period is, however, frequently the time of 
melancholy reflections, of familiarity with the 
grave, and habitual contemplation of death. 
This * Youth for ever,'* whose age even now 
shines with all the brightness of a fine spring 
morning, and who, with the well regulated 
disposition of a wise man, his brow never 
clouded with melancholy or ill humour, ga- 
thers all the flowers of joy, was formerly wrap- 
ped in the mourning attire of Young. Never 
did he more seriously reflect on the instability 
of all earthly things, or on the importance of 
eternity. Many times did he then dip his pen- 
cil in the darkest colours, while on the richest 
and most beautiful night pieces he painted — 
death.' This however wore away entirely af- 
ter a few years, from travelling, agreeable so- 
ciety, constant occupation, increasing fame, 
and a fresh attachment. 

While Klopstock had retired from the world 
to an obscure retreat, his Messiah excited such 
a degree of attention, as no other book had 
ever awakened in Germany. Friends and en- 
emies, admirers and critics, appeared on all 

* The • Youth forever* was the title given him by some of his 
intimate friends, as appears by Dr. Mumasen's third letter t« 
the editor. 



31 

sides; but its success was owing as much to 
the sacredness of the subject as to the beauty 
of the poetry. Young preachers quoted it from 
the pulpit; and christian readers loved it, as a 
book that afforded them, amidst the rage of 
controversy, some scope for devout feeling. By 
some divines it was condemned as a presump- 
tuous fiction; and the partisans of the grammarian 
Gottshed raised still greater clamour against 
the work on account of the language; while the 
Swiss critics, on the other hand, extolled it to 
the greatest degree. Bodmer in particular, the 
translator of Milton, embraced the cause of 
the German epic bard with enthusiastic ardour, 
and contributed greatly to accelerate the cele- 
brity of the poem. Klopstock, whose mind 
was occupied with sublime and original ideas, 
engaged in none of these disputes, but suffer- 
ed friends and enemies to write as they pleased, 
while he was silent, and followed the bent of 
his genius. 

In the summer of the year 1750, Klopstock 
went to Zurich, on an invitation from Bodmer, 
at whose house he resided, and with whom he 
had previously carried on a correspondence. 
Some of his letters to this excellent friend will 



32' 
be found in the following collection. Klopstock 
was received in Switzerland with the most flat- 
tering marks of esteem and respect. The sub- 
lime and enchanting beauties of that romantic 
country, the friendship of some highly cultiva- 
ted minds, and the uncorrupted manners of that 
virtuous nation, would perhaps have made him 
faithless to his native land, had not an unex- 
pected circumstance opened to him very dif- 
ferent prospects in life. The good genius of 
Germany raised up the illustrious Danish count 
BernstorfF, whose capacious mind traced in the 
very commencement of Klopstock's work the 
future glory of the poet. The three first can- 
tos had been presented to him at Paris, where 
he resided as Danish ambassador, and he im- 
mediately resolved to take the author under 
his patronage. By count BernstorfF Klopstock 
was recommended to the favourite minister of 
Frederick V. 'and through him to the king 
himself, by whom he was invited to reside at 
Copenhagen, on a pension which set hirn above 
pecuniary cares, and left him at liberty to 
complete the Messiah. This entitled the Da- 
nish monarch to the noble ode in which Klop- 
stock dedicated to him his sublime poem. 



33 
and gratitude attached him to his new coun- 
try.* 

It was in the spring of the year 1751, that 
Klopstock quitted his beloved Switzerland, and 
travelled through Saxony to Denmark. He vr- 
sited his relations at Quedlinburg, and some 
of his academical friends at Brunswick; and at 
Hamburg he first saw the lovely and accom- 
plished Margaretta Moller, who afterwards 
made him the happiest of men. An interesting 
account of the progress of this attachment will 
be found in Mrs. Klopstock's letters to Rich- 
ardson; and the letters of her friends, after the 
fatal event which put a period to the poet's 
shortlived felicity, with his own account of 
her character, and some fragments of her wri- 
tings, form the principal contents of the fol- 
lowing pages. 

After his first meeting with this lady, Klop- 
stock continued his journey to Copenhagen, 
where he lived in the enjoyment of tranquillity 
and leisure, beloved and respected by all who 

* It appears hbwever that his friends thought him idle; for in 
a letter to Cramer, darted May 6, 1755, Rabener saysj " How 
is Klopstock? Here people think he is dead. If we do not re- 
ceive the promised book at the present fair, I shall be of opi- 
nion that it is not right for kings to give pensions to great gc 
muses.'* 



34 



were friends to science and virtue. Here he 
studied the works ef Young and Richardson. 
With the former he kept up a correspondence, 
and addressed to him an ode, which is strong- 
ly expressive of esteem and admiration. The 
letters which constantly passed between him and 
his beloved Margaret, knit still closer the bonds 
of affection; but domestic circumstances obli- 
ged them to delay their union to a distant pe- 
riod. In the year 1752, the king having de- 
termined to spend the summer in Holstein, 
Klopstock took that opportunity to return to 
the object of his affection at Hamburg, and 
consecrated this happy interval to love and the 
muses. To this circumstance we are indebted 
for his captivating songs to his Margaret, under 
the title of Cidli, the name which he had given 
to Jairus's daughter in the Messiah. His ma- 
trimonial alliance was, however, still deferred, 
and he was obliged to leave her once more, in 
order to return with the king to Copenhagen, 
where he continued during the whole of the 
following year. In the summer of the year 1754, 
he travelled again to Hamburg; and at length, 
on the 10th of June, he was united to the ami- 
able object of his affection. After his marriage 
he went with his bride to Quedlinburg; and it 



35 

was there that, after a severe illness, he wrote 
his celebrated Ode on Recovery. But he en- 
joyed for a very short time the bliss of con- 
nubial affection; in the year 1758, the beloved 
partner of his heart died in childbed, and his 
affliction may be more easily imagined than de- 
scribed. He cherished the remembrance of this 
charming woman to the last moment of his 
life, and always found a melancholy pleasure 
in visiting her grave in the village of Ottensen, 
near Hamburg, where he directed that his 
own remains should be placed by her side. 

The afflicted heart of Klopstock still hung 
on his protector and friend, count BernstorfF; 
and he made Copenhagen his residence, till that 
great man resigned his office in the year 1771. 
After this period the poet returned to Ham- 
burg, where he still enjoyed a pension from the 
king of Denmark, by whom he w T as much es- 
teemed and loved. In 1775, the "margrave 
Frederick of Baden sent him a pressing invi- 
tation to Carlsrhue, where he remained about 
a year, and then returned to Hamburg, at 
which place he resided during the remainder 
of his life. 

Notwithstanding the serious turn of mind 
which pervades the writings of this great poet, 



36 
he was fond of society, and very lively anck 
agreeable. His countenance (as I am informed 
by one of his friends) was extremely pleasing, 
though not remarkably handsome. His eyes 
were blue, full of animation, but chiefly ex- 
pressive of softness and benevolence. His 
voice was uncommonly sweet; and when he 
first addressed a stranger, it was in a low, gen- 
tle, intreating tone, till by degrees he comman- 
ded his whole attention by the spirit and ener- 
gy of his conversation. Animated with all the 
fire of genius, but always gentle and unassum- 
ing, there was no harshness in his look or man- 
ner; nor were his extraordinary talents marked 
by any strong lines, or remarkable expression 
of countenance; so that where he was not known, 
his figure would probably have attracted no 
notice, till he entered into conversation. His 
character is thus described by his friend Sturtz. 
" Klopstock is always cheerful in company, 
and possesses an unabating vivacity. He often 
adorns a trifling thought with all the richness 
of his poetic powers. He is never severe in 
ridicule, nor positive in argument, but expres- 
ses his opinions with great modesty, and lis- 
tens attentively to the opposite sentiments of 
others. Equally remote from the servility of 



37 
the courtier, or the superciliousness of vulgar 
pride, he never loses sight of the man in the 
splendor or the meanness of his situation; he 
esteems birth highly, but real merit still more. 
In the polite circles of insipidly fine people, 
unmarked by any stamp of character, Klopstock 
is never to be found; he prefers the humbler and 
more substantial enjoyment of domestic friend- 
ship, heightened by the surrounding charms of 
nature in rural seclusjon. I have often been de- 
lighted at seeing him pass by amidst a crowd 
of young people, by whom he is almost always 
surrounded, and wiio appeared highly gratified 
at being in his company. In painting, he loves 
only what delineates life, deep thought, and 
speaking expression; in music, only what af- 
fects the heart. One of his favourite amuse- 
ments is skaiting, and he has recommended it 
with enthusiasm. This amusement had once 
nearly proved fatal to him. The ice broke, and 
his life was exposed to very serious danger; 
but he was saved by his noble, friend count 
Bernstorff." 

Klopstock's merit as a poet is now univer- 
sally acknowledged by all who are capable of 
forming any judgment on the subject. His di- 



38 
line songs breathe the genuine spirit of Chris- 
tianity; zeal in the cause of truth, fervent piety, 
and active benevolence. All is grand, sublime, 
and original. His Messiah has raised the fame 
of his native country in the highest department 
of epic poetry to a level with that of every other 
nation. Such at least is the opinion of many 
excellent critics, who share the regret which 
Klopstock always strongly expressed, that this 
admirable work has not been translated into the 
English language in such a manner as it de- 
serves.* From the superior qualities of this 

* Note by Mr. Cramer. — I was acquainted with an 
Englishman of the name of Eaton, a young man of an 
excellent understanding, who had made a sufficient pro- 
gress in the German language to understand Klopstock's 
poetry, and to be an enthusiastic admirer of him. As he 
had been consulat Bassora, and had made many voyages 
to the Levant, Arabic and Persic were as familiar to him* 
as his mother tongue. He related to me a singular anec- 
dote respecting the effect of the Messiah. He once at- 
tempted to translate to an Arabian priest, as accurately 
as the great difference between the languages would 
permit, a passage in a Hymn to Christ. He said that 
it was impossible to describe the attention with which 
the Arab listened to it. At length the blood rose into his 
face; he stood up, and exclaimed with vehemence, " Ex- 
cellent! but Allah pardon him for having so highly exal- 
ted the Son." He then begged Mr. Eaton to proceed, 
and again rose hastily, with a sort of indignant admira- 
tion, continually repeating, " Alia pardon him, for hav- 
ing so highly exalted the Son." 



39 
great poet in the epic style, it is usual to forget his 
dramatic talents, which are allowed to be con- 
siderable, though his tragedies are more fitted 
for reading than representation. His first tra- 
gedy, entitled the Death of Adam, was succee- 
ded by two others, entitled Solomon and Da- 
vid, and by three dramatic pieces, intended to 
celebrate the German hero Hermann, or Armi- 
nius. 

I find the following account of " The Death 
of Adam" in an elegant essay on the German 
Theatre, by Henry Mackenzie, esq. which was 
published in the transactions of the Royal So- 
ciety of Edinburg, vol. 2. 

" There is one performance of a singular 
kind, by a writer whom Germany places by 
the side of Homer and Milton, Klopstock the 
author of ' The Messiah.' This is ' The Death 
of Adam,' written in a dramatic form, though, 
as the author himself informs us, not meant for 
representation. The subject, indeed, seems to 
exclude it from the stage; but the situations, 
though not of a pleasing, are of a highly inter- 
esting kind, and the conceptions and language 
are marked with that force and sublimity which 
his countrymen so enthusiastically admire in 
Klopstock. The angel of death is introduced 



40 
as a person in the drama, announciig to Adam 
his approaching fate. The appearance of this 
majestic and terrible being is prepared in a 
manner uncommonly awful and sublime. 
Adam, and his son Seth, are on the scene. 
4 The terrors of the Almighty,' says the fa- 
ther of mankind, ' are upon me. My eyes lose 
you, my son. What darkly gleaming light rolls 
before me? Feel'st thou the shaking of this 
rock? Dost thou hear the trembling of that hill? 
Upon that hill behold him! Seest thou, my son, 
the angel of terror!" — " 'Tis night around 
me," replies Seth, " but I hear the noise of 
sounding steps!" — The sublimity of this ter- 
ror, which is conveyed to the ear while invisi- 
ble to sight, has been felt in the same manner* 
and is expressed in nearly the same words, by 
a poet of our own, who, in that passage at least, 
has touched the lyre with the true energy of a 
bard. ' Hark!' exclaims the druid in Caracta- 
cus, 

" Hark! heard you not yon footstep dread, 
" That shook the earth with thundering tread? 
"'Twas Death!" 

It will be no disparagement to either of the 
modern poets,, if they shall be thought to have 



41 
borrowed the idea from (Edipus Coloneus of 
Sophocles. 

" The angel is visible to Adam, and an- 
nounces his approaching dissolution with the 
simplicity and solemnity of his function. The 
signs he gives are the sun descending behind 
the grove of cedars, and the return of the an- 
gel, whose steps shall again shake the earth, 
1 Thine eye shall be dim, and thou shalt not 
see me, but thou shalt hear the rock burst with 
the noise of thunder, — thou shalt hear, and die!' 
— The reader is thus prepared for the awful 
event, and the imagination watches, from scene 
to scene, the sinking of the sun, and the sha- 
king of the earth, with that anxious expectation, 
those minute terrors^ if the expression may be 
allowed me, which of all circumstances give 
the strongest emotion to the mind. I take this 
short notice of the drama in question, because 
it stands without the pale of theatrical criticism, 
and because it is the production of a writer 
who is but little known in this country, though 
his genius is revered, even to idolatry, in his 
own." 

In Horn's " Critical History of German Po- 
etry and Eloquence," printed at Berlin in the 
d2 



42 
year 1805, are the following remarks on the 
character and the poetical talents of Klopstock. 
" We may observe in Klopstock three equal- 
ly excellent traits of character which are dis- 
played in his poems — patriotism, warmth of 
friendship, and pure religion; and each of these 
deserves some observations. The poet appear- 
ed in Germany at a time, when, unconscious 
of our own powers, or at least neglecting them, 
we favoured only foreign productions, and 
were not restrained from proceeding in that 
unworthy conduct, even by the insolence with 
which our neighbours received such adulation. 
We had accustomed ourselves to consider the 
poetical compositions of the French as particu- 
larly excellent; and whilst one person after an- 
other repeated this opinion, all our attempts 
were imitations of those models; and the bold, 
national, poetic spirit of former times was re- 
guarded with contempt. Klopstock alone had 
the courage to awaken the attention of his 
sleeping countrymen, by his noble composi- 
tions full of ardour and tenderness; in order that 
they might resume their ancient force and en- 
ergy, and that calm dignity, which confides in 
itself, and is unwilling to borrow from others. 
He was the man who first animated his native 



43 
land with the spirit to attain to that degree of 
excellence in the higher species of poetry, of 
which it was capable, and to which it has al- 
ready attained. 

" Friendship inspired Klopstock with many 
of his finest odes. It is a thought which fills us 
with the most pleasing sensations, that this man, 
who must have felt so firm a confidence in him- 
self, yet constantly lived on the sentiments of 
friendship, and even had the art of warming 
many cooler hearts with the overflowings of his 
affection; and although that animated and ar- 
dent feeling of friendship should sometimes 
have deceived him, with regard to the worth 
of those on whom he bestowed it, yet even 
they who had the least merit amongst them 
were capable of appreciating in some degree 
his elegant and rich mind. 

" Klopstock's piety, in its full extent, as it 
influenced both his heart and his understanding, 
may clearly be discovered in his odes, entitled 
" The Omnipotent," " The Contemplation of 
God," &c. and in the plan of the Messiah. 
When we contemplate this last in all its dig- 
nity and grandeur, and at the same time con- 
sider the courage which was requisite in order 
to adopt it as the subject of an epic poem, we 



44 
shall, even on this account alone, bestow on 
Klopstock the title of a great poet. The recep- 
tion which the Messiah found in Germany, 
was adequate to its merits; we congratulated 
ourselves on a work which the most sacred 
spirit had inspired, and the admiration which 
was excited by this extraordinary poet restrain- 
ed the frivolous criticisms, with which the 
Gottingen school had presumed to attack his 
w T ork." 

As an additional proof of the justice of these 
observations on the character of Kiopstock, I 
will here insert the conclusion of the speech 
which he pronounced when he quitted the col- 
lege in his twemy-first year. It shows what 
were the sentiments which animated his heart 
from youth to age. 

u Piety, and the duty of expressing a thank- 
ful heart towards Thee, O eternal God, the 
holiest and the sweetest duty which is imposed 
on mortal man, now animate and inflame my 
soul; but at the same time I am confused at the 
view of thy majesty; I tremble with holy awe; 
and when I would wish to say much that should 
be worthy of Thee, I am speechless. I stand far 
off with down-cast eyes, astonished and im- 
moveable. Yet wherefore do I stand thus? 



45 
Though I am an atom amidst thy works, O 
thou great Creator, I will fall down and wor- 
ship. The paths through which Thou leadest 
man, can by none of us be entirely discovered; 
but we find in this labyrinth the wisest order, 
and the highest degree of mercy and love. 
What wonder do these thoughts raise in me! 
The soul is averse to receive the conviction 
that she cannot contemplate herself without be- 
ing liable to error; but she learns (and that is 
her greatest happiness) that she cannot err, 
when convinced of her own ignorance, she be- 
lieves it to be the highest wisdcfm to adore 
Thee, O thou holiest of beings! Delighting 
to be occupied in the contemplation of Thee, 
she overflows with pure and sacred joy, and 
triumphs in the recollection of her dignity and 
immortal destination, glorious in divine light. 
This is the greatest blessing, which Thou, O 
most beneficent of beings, hast conferred upon 
me. With how much delight and astonishment 
do I glorify that goodness, which has bestow- 
ed on me an enlightened mind, and health, by 
which I am enabled attentively to contemplate 
thy fair creation. O best of beings, let me so 
employ these gifts, that I may by their aid seri- 
ously endeavour to acquire piety and virtue-. 



46 
And finally, to the benefits which thou bestow- 
est on my body, O grant stability; and to those 
which my immortal soul has received, eternity. 

" And you, my most beloved friends, may 
with reason expect from me some expression 
of gratitude; since I have acquired much, and 
much that is excellent, in your society. I have 
always attentively studied you as a book; 1 have 
often dwelt long even on the most insignificant 
pages, and have repeatedly perused them with 
such unwearied diligence, that the greatest part 
of their contents remains for ever impressed on 
my memory. If I read with a strong spirit of 
investigation, reproach me not; for if it were 
in my power to confer honour on you, this 
would redound to your honour. Many books 
weary me in the reading; and those must be 
very excellent which I allow myself to read a 
second time. But why should I dwell so long 
on this comparison? I behold you, speak to 
you, and call you friends. You have seen, and 
will see, many in your society, of more exalted 
talents and learning; but none who could more 
carefully observe your conduct, or more delight 
in your society, than my self ^ 

" And finally, my college, guardian and wit; 
ness of this friendship, hail to thee! For ever 



47 
shall I remember thee with gratitude; for ever 
consider and revere thee as the parent of those 
works, which I have ventured to commence 
under thy protection!" 

The remaining years of the life of Klopstock 
afford few events. In 1791, when he was in his 
sixty-eighth year, he married Joannah von 
Wenthen, who was nearly related to his first 
wife; and much of the happiness of his cheer- 
ful old age was owing to his union with this 
lady. To the close of life he retained his poeti- 
cal powers; and his sacred harp still sent forth 
strains of sublime and heartfelt piety. 

Klopstock died at Hamburg, on the 14th of 
March 1803, in the 80th year of his age, with 
a firm expectation of happiness beyond the 
grave. His strong feelings of religion shed a 
lustre on his last moments, when he displayed 
a noble example of what he had often sung in 
his divine poems. He preserved his gentle ani- 
mation, his fervent piety, and the admirable 
serenity of his mind, till the close of life. To 
the last his heart was as warm as ever; and the 
hopes which had supported him through all his 
trials, continued unshaken to his last moments. 
He spoke of death with the most cheerful com- 
posure. The pleasing images of immortality 



4 

48 
sung by his own lofty muse recurred to his 
mind in the moment of trial, and whispered 
comfort to his spirit as it fled. — His soul had 
been undismayed at the symptoms of decay 
which increased every year. His strength was 
greatly diminished in the winter of 1802, but 
he was still pleased with the visits of his 
friends. He frequently read his Messiah, but 
" think not," he once said to a friend, " that I 
now read it as a poet; I only occupy myself with 
the ideas it contains." His voice was remarkably 
pleasing, and he repeated his poems with much 
taste and feeling. To the last he loved to speak 
of his Meta, and pleased himself with planting 
white lilies on her grave, because the lily was 
the most exalted of flowers, and she was the 
most exalted of women. He did not love to 
speak of the events which have lately disturbed 
the world, but turned the discourse with pecu- 
liar pleasure to the past scenes of his life. His 
retentive memory, the liveliness of his imagina- 
tion, and the elegance as well as force of his 
language, made his representation of- these 
scenes extremely interesting to his friends. 

In the last weeks of his life he secluded him- 
self entirely, even from those who were most dear 
to him. He sent them many kind messages, btit 



49 
declined seeing them. Tranquillity of mind, 
resignation to the will of God, warm emotions 
of gratitude for the happiness he had enjoyed 
in life, gentle endurance of the pains of death, 
a calm prospect of the grave, and joyful expec- 
tations of a higher existence, these were now 
his sensations. The fair form of the angel of 
death, the exalted view of a better world, 
which had fired the lofty minded youth to com- 
pose his sacred hymns, these now hovered 
round the head of the aged dying saint. In the 
12th canto of the Messiah, he has sung the 
happy close of a virtuous life with unparalleled 
grandeur of description. Such christian tri- 
umph attended him in the hard struggles of 
dissolution, which grew more painful on a near- 
er approach. In the last and severest conflict 
he raised himself on his couch, folded his hands, 
and with uplifted eyes pronounced the sacred 
words so finely illustrated in one of his odes, 
— " Can a woman forget her child, that she 
should not have pity on the fruit of her womb? 
Yes, she may forget, but I will not forget Thee!" 
— The struggle was now over, he fell into a 
gentle slumber, and awoke no more. 

A solemn funeral, such as Germany had never 

E 



50 
witnessed for any man of letters before, ho- 
noured the venerable remains of Klopstock. 
The following account of the awful ceremony- 
was written by one of his friends, and insert- 
ed in a Hamburg newspaper dated March 22, 
1803. 

" At ten o'clock this morning, above seven- 
ty coaches assembled before the house of the 
deceased. This respectable train consisted of 
the diplomatic corps resident in the circle of 
Lower Saxony, the members of our senate. 
the ministers of our church, the teachers of 
the gymnasium and of St. John's, literati, 
merchants, &c, Notwithstanding the immense 
concourse of people, amounting to at le£|rfiity 
thousand in the streets and market-place, all 
interference of the police was unnecessary. An 
universal sentiment of awe supplied its place, 
and imposed silence on an innumerable multi- 
tude of people. The procession, preceded and 
followed by a guard of cavalry and infantry 
sent by the senate, followed the open hearse, 
drawn by four horses, on which stood the sim- 
ple coffin, and proceeded through some of the 
principal streets to the gate which leads to Al- 
tona. At the gate the body was received by 
the first president of Altona, preceded by ten 
marshals, and followed by many citizens and 



51 

inhabitants, among whom were many members 
of the senate, as well as celebrated literati, 
foreign generals, and other persons of distinc- 
tion. They joined the respectable train from 
Hamburg, in the following order. An escort of 
hussars. Two marshals in carriages, with a 
train of forty- five coaches. Between the mar- 
shals went three young ladies, dressed in white, 
crowned with oak leaves and white roses, and 
carrying wreaths of roses, myrtle, and laurel. 
The procession passed through the principal 
streets of Altona, to the grave in the church- 
yard of the village of Ottensen. The corpse 
was everywhere met by open demonstrations 
of respect and love, and of grief for such an ir- 
reparable loss. The guards by whom the pro- 
cession passed in both towns, paid military 
honours, and the ships in the harbour had 
mourning flags. When the procession arrived 
at the grave, where it was received by music 
of wind instruments muffled, the coffin was ta- 
ken off the hearse, carried into the church, and 
placed before the altar. The noble poem of the 
Messiah was laid on the coffin. A young man 
stepped forward, and covered the open book 
with a laurel crown, while the young ladies 
from Altona laid theirs on the bier. Then be- 



52 
gan the musical celebration performed by above 
an hundred musicians, together with many fe- 
male singers from different families in Ham- 
burg. Stanzas and choruses out of Klopstock's 
paraphrase of the Pater Noster, and his spiritu- 
al songs set to music by Romberg and others, 
and out of Mozart's mourning cantata, resoun- 
ded through the aisles, and added a melting 
solemnity to the scene. During a pause in the 
musk, Dr. Meyer took the book from the cof- 
fin, and read, from the 12th canto of the Mes- 
siah, the description of the death of Mary the 
sister of Lazarus: — comforting, animating im- 
ages of death and immortality which had hov- 
ered round the deathbed of the pious poet! 
exalted thoughts of religion with which his 
soul departed from this world! Then burst 
forth the chorus, c Arise, verily thou shalt arise!' 
during which the coffin was taken up and car- 
ried into the churchyard, and after every sa- 
cred rite was performed, it was let down into 
the grave. 

" A noble lime-tree overshadows it. Flow- 
ers, the firstlings of the new awakened spring, 
were scattered over it. Peace, heavenly peace, 
shall hover over this beloved grave. Ye men 
of future generations, men of genuine taste and 



53 
feeling, ye will make a pilgrimage to this grave, 
and pay to the manes of a man who was the 
glory of his age, and the pride of his nation, 
the offering of admiration and gratitude, which 
we his friends and contemporaries by this day's 
ceremony can but faintly express for our dear 
departed friend." 

The letters which the editor had the ho- 
nour of receiving from the venerable Dr. 
Mumssen of Altona, to whom she was indebt> 
ed for almost the whole of the following col- 
lection, will furnish some interesting particu- 
lars with regard to the character of Klopstock; 
and it is presumed that they will be more ac- 
ceptable to the reader, if presented in their 
original form. 



e 2 



54 
LETTER I. 

Altona, near Hamburgh* 
7th Sept. 1804. 

Madam, 

I think myself highly honoured by your let- 
ter. It came from a delightful island,* which, 
though many years ago, I remember well. It 
was about this time of the year when I visited 
it, the evening sun and the harvest moon ap- 
pearing in direct opposition above the horizon, 
on our walk to Carisbrook Castle. I could 
have built my chateau en Espagne in that 
island, and have made it my residence for ever. 

When I observed in the papers the publica- 
tion of Richardson's correspondence, Mrs. 
Klopstock's letters occurred to my thoughts, 
for I remember Richardson's answers. 

Very willingly will I look out for such ma- 
terials as you desire for your friend, if I can 
meet with such as will be proper for the pre- 
sent time and taste. Klopstock certainly de- 
serves to be more known to the English, not 
only for his extraordinary genius as a sublime 
poet, but also for his private virtues and amia- 
ble character, for he was the most agreeable 

* The Isle of Wight, 



55 
companion in private life, and his conversation 
was pleasant to all ranks and to every age: an 
excellent classic, and a great scholar in every 
branch of philosophy. I have lived above forty- 
five years in intimate and uninterrupted friend- 
ship with him. I owe to. him some of my ho- 
nourable connexions in the world; and having 
been so lucky as to meet with him in my youth, I 
reaped great benefit from following his principles 
and moral rectitude. Besides his Messiah and 
odes, &c. he has published several philological 
writings, in which he appears as a grammarian; 
and as such, the German language owes to him 
her resurrection from the barbarous ages. 
They suppose a reader versed in all the North- 
ern as well as Greek and Latin dialects; and 
you may judge that even among scholars, the 
number of such as can profit or be entertained 
by them cannot be considerable. — I remember 
that my for ever dear and lamented friend 
Charles* had begun to translate some of his 
odes; he who was master of both languages; 
but I do not know what is become of them. 
They are nowhere to be found. All that I can 
send you at present is a collection of Marga- 

* Charles Hanbury, esq. This excellent young; man 
died in the year 1783. 



56 
rctta Klopstock's letters, &c. and a lecture de- 
livered last year at Quediinburg, his native 
place, containing particulars of his education. 
&c. &c. 

P. S. You will excuse when I write not cor- 
rectly; being so long parted from England, 
where once I thought myself at home. 

LETTER II. 

Altona, 7th Nov. 1804. 

I will hope, dear madam, that before this 
letter comes to hand you will have received the 
materials relating to our divine poet. Should I 
be so happy to discover any thing more, you 
shall have it; and in a deluge of books and 
pamphlets, should something really beautiful 
and worth your notice appear, which might 
please you and your } T oting friend, or accom- 
modate the taste of the English, I will very 
willingly forward it to you. — I have lately been 
well entertained by a drama, Polyxene, worthy 
of the true spirit of the ancients. — Begulus, by 
Collin, an officer in the imperial service,, and 
Wilhelm Tell, by Schiller, I can recommend as 
productions promoting virtue and religion. 



57 
I am in these long evenings reading Hume's 
History of England, and find very little conso- 
lation in comparing the times of Charles I. 
and those of Louis XVI. There is so much 
resemblance, that it would surprize many who 
no more recollect the times past. The revo- 
lution of England has at the end proved bene- 
ficial to your country: what will be the conse- 
quence of that which we have seen, God alone 
knows! &x. 

LETTER III. 

Altona, 2d July, 1805. 

I am charmed to find that you and your 
friend are pleased with the materials I have 
sent. Go on in your laudable endeavour, in 
spite of those cold hypercritics that are a sad 
race of men everywhere. 

"Fanny is the poetical name of Miss Schmidt, 
a near relative of Klopstock. He never declar- 
ed his passion to her, for there was no prospect 
of a nearer union. She was afterwards married 
to a gentleman whose name I do not remember. 
The gentle youth, in the prime of life, inspired 
by religion, and in love with Fanny, applied in 
vain to Bodmer at Zurich for an employment. 



$8 
These letters are lately published, and though 
Certainly not intended for the press, they do 
honour to the feelings of his heart and the ar- 
dour of his mind. I intend to send you these 
letters by the first traveller whom I can entrust 
with the charge. 

We have as yet no biography of Klopstock 
to my mind. Pofessor Cramer (son to the late 
chancellor of the university of Kiel, Klop- 
stock's intimate friend, he that published the 
Nordische Aufseher, a periodical paper in imi- 
tation of your Spectator) would be the proper 
person, being acquainted from his youth with 
Klopstock. He lives at Paris, and I remember 
that he collected many curious circumstances 
concerning that extraordinary genius. 

Cidli is an imaginary name from the Mes- 
siah. Klopstock gave that name to Jairus's 
daughter, and that of Semida to the youth of 
Nain. See the episode in the Messiah. In his 
odes he gives this name to his beloved Mar- 
garett Moiler. Meta is Margaretta contracted. 

Klopstock's principal occupation was that of 
a grammarian, the comparative study of lan- 
guages with regard to the German. I who saw 
him every day when in Hamburg, found him 
always in pursuit of whatever is noble, sublime, 



59 
and beautiful. He was a most agreeable com- 
panion. We used to call him " den ewigen 
Jungling," the youth for ever! He has lived free 
all his life time, and has recommended liberty 
on all occasions. His bardits were intended to 
rouse the Germans from their apathy, and to 
inspire them and their princes, even the empe- 
ror Joseph himself, with the love of their coun- 
try. Alas! he was much deceived in these hopes. 
Things have taken a different turn. — He kept 
up his gentle spirit, his religious principles, 
and his serenity of mind, till the end of his life. 
His obsequies were like those of a great and 
virtuous prince. Hamburg and Altona joined 
in the funeral pomp. Mozart's Requiem, and 
some of his own sacred hymns, were sung in 
the church of Ottensen, where he was interred 
under the beautiful lime tree planted on Meta's 
grave forty years ago, and which I have every 
day before my eyes. I was present when it was 
planted. 

This morning, July 2d, Klopstock's birth- 
day, some friends came to strew flowers on his 
grave. Mrs. Hanbury will assemble his old 
friends at Flotbech, where I am going to cele- 
brate his memory, for ever dear and sacred! 

One of our friends last year read a lecture 



60 
before an assembly on some of his odes, m 
which he followed the progress of his genius 
through the several stages of life. It is in Ger- 
man, but as it may give pleasure and enter- 
tainment to your friend, I will send it with the 
letters above mentioned. Should I succeed in 
finding more materials, I will take care to send 
them in time. 

LETTER IV. 

Altona, July 24, 1805. < 

A gentleman of Hamburg will be so good 
to forward to you the pamphlet mentioned in 
my last letter, which, as it contains the letters 
Written by our divine poet to Bodmer, will 
give pleasure both to your friend and your- 
self. These letters will certainly adorn your col- 
lection, and show the world the delicacy of his 
mind, and the virtue and magnanimity of his 
heart. I have not yet been able to procure the 
manuscript of another friend, which will illus- 
trate the progress of his genius through the dif- 
ferent periods of his life. I hope to send you 
the epitaph written by count Frederick Leo- 
pold Stolberg, which is to be engraved on the 
tombstone. Professor Cramer, whose name I 



61 . 
mentioned in my letter, published, twenty years 
ago, a work entitled " Klopstock, his person, 
his manners, and character." Should your 
friend be curious to have it, I may send it by 
another traveller, &c. 

LETTER V. 

Alton a, Sept. 16, 1805. 

I have the honour to acknowledge the re- 
ceipt of your very kind letter, and think myself 
very happy in the approbation which the ma- 
terials relating to Klopstock's character have 
met with by yourself and your amiable friend. 
Nothing can equal the pleasure I feel, that un- 
der your auspices the author of the Messiah 
will obtain justice in a nation that produced a 
Milton. 

I have desired my bookseller in Hamburg 
to procure, and direct to you, Cramer's " Klop- 
stock er und iiber ihn." You will find in it 
very interesting particulars. You will, besides 
this, and probably in a few days, receive the v 
small pamphlet composed by Hutwalker, a 
senator of Hamburg. The author, who was 
very intimate with Klopstock, and his writings, 



62 
has tried to trace the different stages of the di- 
vine poet's activity as near as possible from his 
own words. Mr. Hutwalker not intending this 
essay for the public, but only for Klopstock's 
friends, it may be ■ regarded as a manuscript, 
and it will perhaps be found of service to your 
design. 

A near neighbour and most intimate friend 
of Klopstock, and thoroughly acquainted with 
all his writings, has given me the names of 
those letter writers which you are curious to 
know.* 

All these except Mr. Funke, and the coun- 
tess dowager Bernstorff, at Weimar, are now 
no more. One of Klopstock's brothers, Mr. 
Victor Klopstock, lives in Hamburg. The epi- 
taph will soon follow. 

The political state of Europe has taken 

another turn . The fate of Germany, should 

it come to a continental war, will be dreadful. 

I recommend you, dear madam, and your 
country, and all our friends, to God Al- 
mighty, in whom we trust for ever, &c. 

Saturday last, September 28, the tombstone 
of white Carrara marble was placed on the 

* These will appear in their proper places. 



63 
grave of our divine poet. It is crowned by two 
sheaves, and underneath a verse of the Mes- 
siah — 

" Seed sown by God, to ripen for the day of harvest." 

In a niche the Celestial Muse, in one arm the 
cross, her hand on an urn, her eyes and the 
other hand directed towards heaven. Alto 
relievo. 

THE EPITAPH. 

By the side of his Meta and his child, rests 

FREDERICK GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK. 

He was born July 2d, 1724. 

He died March 14, 1803. 

Germans, approach with veneration and love 

the relics of your greatest poet. 

Approach, ye Christians, with grief and heavenly joy, 

the resting-place of the sacred songster, 

Whose song, — life, — and death, — praised Jesus Christ. 

He sung to men, in human strains, the Eternal, 

the Divine Mediator. 

Near the Throne is placed his great reward, 

A Golden Holy Cup filled with Christian tears. 

His second loving and beloved Spouse, 

JOHANNAH ELIZABETH, 

Erected this marble to the Guide of her Youth, her Friend, 

her Husband. 

She waits in tears the hour, that will, where death shall be no 

more, where the Lord will wipe off the tears of his beloved, 

unite her with him, and those whom she loved. 

Adore Him, who for us lived, died, and 
arose from the dead. 



64 



LETTER VI. 

Altona, Oct. 29, 180$. 

When I lately sent you the epitaph, time 
would not permit me to accompany it with 
some observations. The first four lines are in- 
deed excellent. What follows is certainly ho- 
nourable to him, and well expressed, but it will 
not be intelligible to many. The passage re- 
garding the golden cup relates to one of Klop- 
stock's Odes, inscribed " To the Redeemer.'' 
All who are unacquainted with those sublime 
poems, will be unable to judge of what is 

meant 

The navigation is now restored 

again, I wish it may remain so The 

misery of those countries that are become the 
seat of war is beyond expression. After a bad 
harvest, the unhappy inhabitants will be de- 
prived of every support. With sincere regard, 
and hearty wishes of happier times, I have the 
honour, Sec. 



65 



LETTER VII. 

Aitona, Nov. 26, 1805.' 

I sincerely wish, dear madam, that your 
amiable friend may be entirely recovered; 
and in her convalescence I hope she will take 
proper care of herself in this cold season, in or- 
der to become your assistant again in your ho- 
nourable undertaking. My bookseller has sent 
Cramer's book, &c. &c. Whatever shall occur 
worthy of your attention, and fit for your design, 
will be sent by me from time to time. 

Britannia has obtained a glorious victory, and 
the admiral ended nobly, and according to his 

wishes May God have mercy on us in 

this part of the world; and may you, and all 
that are dear to you, enjoy health and happi- 
ness in your blessed island. 



f 2 



66 
LETTER VIII. 

Altona, July 6, 1806. 

It is a long while, dear madam, that I have 
ho account either of yourself, or of our dear 
friends at Portsmouth. May you live in hap- 
piness, and enjoy all the blessings derived from 

religious principles and good intentions 

The last winter has deprived me of two very 
dear friends, ... but not for ever! 

Mrs. Klopstock has favoured me with part 
of a correspondence between Klopstock and 
Meta Moiler, written in the year 1752, when 
they were promised to each other, and lovers 
in that period of life when the fire of imagina- 
tion appears in its clearest and most sparkling 
light. You will be pleased with them, and ad- 
mire with us, in the happy pair, the elevation 
of mind, the purity of their innocent passion, 
and their religious sensibility, far above the 
common conception, comprehensible only by 
minds like theirs, superior in virtue, candour, 
and ingenuity. 

I perfectly agree with you about the times, 
and with regard to your late illustrious minis- 
ter. The late count BernstoifT, and all my no- 
ble friends in the diplomatic line, unanimously 



67 
give him a great character. He loved his coun- 
try, and remained true to his principles from 
the beginning to the end. He might perhaps 
have been better acquainted with the whole 
continental state. 

Most fortunately, and to my great pleasure, 
your sister is arrived here from Italy. I passed 
yesterday in her company at Mrs. Hanbury's, 
where I might wish to see you all united, if 
such a scheme could be realized in this world. 
It will be our happiness in a better state, that 
those who agree in the love of truth and virtue, 
will not be separated, as we now are, by such 
difficulties. 

I remain, with true respect and affection, &c. 



LETTERS 



FROM 



KLOPSTOCK TO BODMER. 

TO J. J. BODMER. 

Langensalza, Aug. 10, 1748. 

I should long since have written to you, 
my dear Bodmer, had I not been deterred by 
the praise with which you loaded me in your 
letter to Gartner. Unaccustomed to behold the 
threshold of Olympus, on which you placed 
me, I was overcome with shame. To have re- 
turned thanks, would have seemed as if I 
thought myself worthy of that for which I 
thanked you. As I believe you to be a good 
man, and to have spoken sincerely, so I would 
wish you to believe that I am sincere, and that I 
do not say any thing out of feigned modesty. 
Let me therefore pass over this subject, and 
leave you to defend your opinion of me before 
the tribunal of critics. I will now tell you, — but 
hear me as a father hears his son, — how I not 
only reverence but love you; and what great 



69 
services you have, unknown to yourself, alrea- 
dy done me. When yet a boy, reading Homer 
and Virgil, and enraged at the German com- 
mentators, your criticisms and Breitinger's 
came into my hands. Having once read, or 
rather devoured them, they were always at my 
left hand, to be continually turned over while 
Homer and Virgil were at my right. How of- 
ten I then wished, and still wish, for your pro- 
mised treatise on the sublime! But Milton, 
whom perhaps I should too late have seen, if 
you had not translated him, when accidentally 
he fell into my hands, blew up at once the fire 
which had been kindled by Homer, and raised 
my soul to heaven, and the poetry of religion. 
Often did I then behold the image of an epic 
poet, such as you have described in your cri- 
tical poem, and I looked at it, as Caesar on the 
bust of Alexander, in tears; how often then, 

" Cum spes arrectae juvenum, exultantiaque haurit 

" Corda pavor pulsans." Virg. 

Such are your services to me, but faintly 
sketched. Yet greater (if you please) remain. 
The Messiah is scarce begun. If what I have 
sung deserve your attention, I shall sing greater 
things hereafter. 



70 

" Major rerum mihi nascitur ordo, 
" Majus opus moveo." Virg. 

But I want leisure; and being of a very weak 
constitution, and probably shortlived, I have 
even now but little hope of finishing the poem. 
A laborious employment awaits me; with which 
oppressed, what can I sing worthy of the Mes- 
siah? My native country neither cares, nor will 
care, for me; but see the road 1 have found out, 
by which, if you would go before me, I feel as 
if I might conquer fortune. There was amongst 
you a poet, Van Haarer, whom without doubt 
you know; he is in great favour with the 
prince of Orange, who is said to be generous 
and magnanimous. What if he should give me 
a pension If you can do any thing to assist me 
in this business, excellent Bodmer, I know you 
will do it, but not as asking in my name; for I 
would not beg my fortune of princes, though I 
would of Bodmer. 

I will now, trusting to the strictest secrecy, 
introduce you to the interior of my most sacred 
thoughts. I love a tender holy maid, to whom 
my third ode is addressed, with the most tender 
holy lpve; but she is not accessible to me, nor 
likely to be so, for fortune separates us widely. 



71 

Yet without her I am miserable By Mil- 
ton's shade, by thine own blessed infants, by 
thy own great soul, I adjure thee, Bodmer, 
make me happy, if thou canst! Farewel, salute 
most kindly in my name Breitenger, Hingel, 
and that good man to whom you inscribed an 
ode. 

This is written August 10, 1748, at Langen- 
salza in Thuringia, where I am instructing the 
son of a merchant, named Weiss, (who will be 
a poet not unworthy of my pains;) where the 
greater part of my family reside, (more opulent 
than my parents;) where dwells that heavenly girl 
whom I love, the daughter of my mother's 
brother. Whatever you think likely to be the 
event, whether there is any hope or not, write 
to me as soon as possible; that my soul, struck 
by powerful love, love which is but faintly tra- 
ced in my odes, for it was impossible to ex- 
press it, may either be relieved from her anx- 
iety, or totally depressed. The last would 
be more tolerable to me than this troubled sea 
of uncertain thoughts. Farewel, and love me* 



72 



LETTER II. 



J' September 27, 1748. 

It is a glorious reward for my poems, to 
hear from one of the best of men that he is my 
friend. How tenderly have you sympathized 
in my uneasiness! I used to have so much great- 
ness of mind as not to be miserable; and now 
that I am so, I find a friend who calls me back 
into myself; but yet I return with lingering 
steps, continually looking back. The sorrows 
of love are so great, that they deserve to have 
such power over me. She whom I love is now 
more cruel to me than when I first wrote to 
you. Yet your letter, the conciousness that my 
love is exalted aod pure, and my sense of reli- 
gion, prevent my being completely miserable. 
She knows but little of my sentiments, or if she 
has discovered them, she does not let me know 
it, but she is capable of feeling them all. How 
would she feel your letter, if I had courage to 
read it to her; and if she loved me, how would 
she look on me with those eyes so full of soul! 
She has a certain character of beauty that dis- 
tinguishes her from all others; I can no other- 
wise describe it to you at present, than by say- 



73 

ing that it exactly corresponds with what I have 
said of her in my songs. Perhaps Laura, who 
so thirsted for immortality, was like her. Radi- 
chen belonged to this order of beauties, though 
she was not like her. She is thus described in 
my ode. 

" She is young and beautiful. . . . Unlike the 
fluttering troop of rosy maids, who thoughtless 
bloom, by nature carelessly formed, in spor- 
tive mood; of feeling void, and void of mind, 
void of the all-powerful, all- subduing look of 
soul, the emanation of divinity. 

" She is young and beautiful. Her every 
movement speaks the heavenly temper of her 
mind; and worthy, . . . ah! most worthy of im- 
mortal fame, she steps in lofty triumph forth, 
serene as the unruffled air, bright as the dawn, 
full of simplicity as nature's self." 

I know not whether He whose will decrees 
me so much sufFering, sees here no happiness 
for me, where I imagine so much; or whether, 
foreseeing that I am not yet capable of bearing- 
such joy, he gives me time to grow more calm. 
Thus much I know, — I cannot change the slight- 
est stroke on his eternal tables; and I find much 
comfort in submitting myself to Him. I know 



74 
too, that to her whom I love so inexpressibly > 
I wish with my whole heart the purest happi- 
ness, even if she love me not again. You see 
I make you the confidant of my most secret 
thoughts. My other friends know nothing of 
my sufferings; even to my dear Schmidt I have 
said very little on the subject. 

I have communicated to my friends at Leip- 
sic your proposal about the subscription. I ex- 
pect to have the fourth and fifth cantos ready 
by Easter. The first five cantos would make a 
volume. But with all your doubts, do you not 
still entertain too favourable an opinion of our 
nation? I believe they will need to be often 
awakened, before they will even observe that 
my Messiah is in existence. 

You intend to review the Messiah in the 
language of Tasso. It is a great satisfaction to 
me to be made known to the admirers of Tas- 
so and Michael Angelo. In my youth I never 
could hear the name of Tasso without rever- 
ence; and to see Michael x^ngelo's picture of 
the Last Judgment, I would travel alone to 
Rome. Send me the review as soon as it is 
printed; every line of approbation from you is 

peculiarly precious to me A perhaps too 

proud aversion to dedications is the cause that 



75 
I beg you to consider whether it would not be 
best to send the Messiah with a private letter 
to the Prince of Wales;* and perhaps this might 
be more conveniently and more effectually done 
by a stranger than by the author. Open your 
thoughts to me on this subject as freely as I 
write mine to you, and tell me whether you 
would undertake the task. 

The versification of the Messiah will offend 
many. I see it will take them a long time to 
find out that German hexameters in themselves, 
and particularly in a long poem, are more har- 
monious and sonorous than German iambics. 
Those w T ho are unacquainted with Homer will 
not be able to find their way; and yet nothing- 
is required of them, but to place the same ac- 
cent on the words of an hexameter, that they 
would place on the words of an harmonious 
period in an oration. Some readers of Homer, 
who resemble the grammarian Crist in Leip- 
sic, will take it amiss of the German language 
that it is not the Greek language, and prescribe 
i to the German hexameter the rules of the Ho- 
merian. These people give general rules for 
the length and shortness of syllables according 

* Frederick Prince of Wales. 



76 
to the Greek language, instead of which they 
should give them according to our own lan- 
guage. 

My love of anliarmonious verse has led me 
to this digression. This is the reason too why 
I intend to alter many of my verses, and to be 
in future more attentive to harmony. 

I send you another Ode, the produce of my 
love. She who could best reward it has not 
seen it, so timid does her apparent insensibility 
make me. I never proposed to myself to write 
odes, and yet it has so happened that I have 
made several. This however might be pardon- 
able, if I had not exposed myself to the danger 
of appearing on the same theatre with Lange. 

The verses beneath the ode are from the 
fifth book of the Messiah. They appear to me 
worthy of remark, because my beloved critic 
made me read them several times over to her. 
It would take too much room here to tell you 
the connexion in which they stand. 

What is become of the excellent Kliest? 
Have his few hours of leisure drawn nothing 
more from his pen? I love him from my heart. 
I well remember those hours, ... it was a fine 
afternoon in Autumn, . . . when hearing his po- 
ems read made me so pensive. The afternoon 



77 
was followed by an evening of the purest de- 
light. I have passed many such evenings with 
my friends, but they are all over now, and I am 
left to the lonely sorrows of love. I was that 
evening full of happiness; and indeed the acqui- 
sition of a new friend deserved it. This even- 
ing reminds me of that on which Gartner took 
leave of us when I had only just begun to know 
him, and with him his friends. In an ode on 
my friends are these stanzas on that subject. 

" In those last hours ere thou didst part from 
us, (to me that evening shall be ever sacred!) 
I learnt, my friend, how virtuous souls, how 
the ftw virtuous, love each other. 

" Full many an evening hour is yet in store, 
... ye future sons of men pass them not lonely; 
to friendship consecrate those happy hours, and 
be your fathers your example." 

Gartner probably will not pass by Zurich to 
Geneva. He is separated from the count, with 
whom he was to have travelled. He is a liberal 
minded man, but very conscientious. 

Tell those worthy gentlemen who have so 
much compassion for Abbadona, that I am 
myself so concerned for his fate, that I scarcely 
have sufficient power over my heart to submit 

c 2 



78 

to the strict justice which is higher than our 
hearts. However, his story will not,. I think, 
any where lay too strong hold on their tender- 
ness. He is placed there for the glory of the 
Messiah. 

How happy shall I be, if by the completion of 
the Messiah I may contribute somewhat to the 
glory of our great and divine religion! Hew 
sweet and transporting is this idea to my mind! 
That is my great reward; and you, my dearest 
friend, point it out to me at a distance. I must 
here leave off. Midnight approaches, and I must 
give myself up to my silent sorrow and my 
tears. May my lovely friend yet take that 
share in them which your letter bids me hope. 
Farewel! 



79 
LETTER III. 

October 19, 1748. 

My dearest friend, 

How deeply am I affected by all your gener- 
ous exertions in my behalf; and how well do 
you deserve the whole friendship of my heart! 
If you feel that you act nobly when you seek 
fortune for me as a means of happiness to your- 
self, I feel as strongly that I love you tenderly; 
and that any piece of good fortune which you 
may receive from the hand of Providence and 
bring to me, will be doubly precious in my 
eyes. The divine poet Young says in his Night 
Thoughts, as well as I can remember the pas- 
sage, " O God, thou hast made the world glo- 
rious around Thee! Thou hast brought forth 
the stars in their marvellous circles; but one 
tear of the virtuous, shed for the unfortunate, 
is greater than all these."* 

* I cannot find the passage in the Night Thoughts to which 
Mr. Klopstock alludes. He says that he quotes by memory, and 
possibly he had an imperfect recollection of the following lines, 
near the conclusion of the Sixth Night. 

" These are ambition's works, and these are great; 

" But this, the least immortal souls can do. — 

11 Transcend them all. — But what can these transcend? 

" Dost ask me what?--One sigh for the distressed." 
The same thought is beautifully expressed by Klopstock him- 
self, in the seventh book of the Messiah. 



80 
I am sure you know me so well, that you 
will not accuse me of a want of manly spirit in 
misfortune. My misfortune, indeed, consists 
only in this, that some outward circumstances 
disturb me in the possession of what I call hap- 
piness; (I take out of this account the pains of 
love;) but my eye is already accustomed to 
these prospects, and I do not boast of any great 
courage when I say, that from a youth I have 
calmly and steadily looked my fate in the face. 
My parents, who are very upright, had pro- 
perty, but without their fault they are become 
poor. Since they have no longer been able to 
provide for me, my dearest friend Schmidt has 
supported me in the noblest manner. I have 
often observed the footsteps of Divine Provi- 
dence in the midst of my ill fortune, and adored 
them. Knowing this Providence, can I yet talk 
of misfortunes? I must be silent; but this I may 
say, that I very often wish for that sacred lei- 
sure, which I would gladly dedicate entirely 
to the completion of the Messiah. I wish for 
his leisure to enable me to express my thoughts 
immediately as they arise, and in the first 
warmth of their youth. I must now, being dis- 
turbed, content myself with writing down some 



81 
imperfect traces of these thoughts, and some 
few marks by which I may afterwards find them 
again; but perhaps I shall never find them again 
in the same point of view, and with the same 
extent of prospect, as at first. You will easily 
see that many other things in my poem, depend 
on this leisure. But I leave this also to Provi- 
dence. 

LETTER IV. 

Nov. 5, 1748. 

I have waited hitherto that I might be enabled 
to tell you something decisive of my love, but 
this I cannot yet do. Your letter to Miss 
Schmidt, which I shall ever preserve as a me- 
morial of my perhaps unhappy passion, I have 
not given to her. Much as it delighted me, 
much as I wished to be able to give it her, and 
much as she herself would have prized it, I had 
not courage. I have sent it to her brother, to 
whom I have laid open my whole heart. He had 
previously written me a very affectionate letter. 
He had told me that this love was what he had 
long in secret wished. He says, amongst other 
things, 

" My friend I knew thy heart, I knew the maiden's tenderness, 
•' And therefore secretly I ask'd of Heaven to make her thine." 



82 

He then tells me a little story from which it 
appears that I am too timid. The most agreea- 
ble circumstance is that his sister had curiosity 
enough to break open the letter which was en- 
closed to her. Since I sent him your letter, he 
has written to me with uncommon affection. 
He is really an admirable young man. He says 
my precious tears for his sister, and the interest 
which the whole future world will take in my 
favour, make him look on my love with reve- 
rential awe. I will not send you a large extract 
from his long letter. I will only tell you that he 
intends to write to his sister without disguise, 
and to send her your letter. I know not whether 
I can venture in the interim to give her the Al- 
caic ode which I now send you. Happy should 
I be if I could have expressed in it all the sen- 
timents of my heart! O how has this heavenly 
maiden captivated my whole soul! — But I will 
say no more of her, lest I should express my- 
self more feebly than I have done in the ode. 

Ebert has translated Leonidas. The story of 
Teribazus and Ariana has taken such hold on 
me, that I seem to myself like the marble image 
on a hero's tombstone. 

You will find among the latter pieces in this 
packet an elegy, in which I was already think- 



S3 
ing of my Fanny. About the same time, that is, 
about a year ago, I also composed the inclosed 
Ode to Ebert, as far as to the lines addressed 
to you. I will here break off my letter, as I am 
unwilling again to delay my answer. Perhaps it 
will not be much longer before I may be able to 
tell you something decisive. If you love me, 
my dearest friend, pray Heaven to grant me my 
love. I should without her be as unhappy as I 
am capable of being. 

LETTER V. 

Dec. 2d, 1748: 

I write to you again to tell ycu that the fate 
of my love appears continually more doubtful. 
What a string of trifles, which however are for 
from being trifles to me, must I write to enable 
you to judge with any degree of certainty. I 
gave her this last Alcaic ode when taking leave 
after a visit. I have since spoken to her again. 
If I except a little confusion, a slight blush, and 
some almost tender looks, I do not know what 
impression the ode has made. If I did not know 
how uncommonly delicate are all her feelings, 
and if she were not aware how well I know it; 
if I were not acquainted with every little turn 



84 
of her opinion on poems of similar import; but 
I will say no more, — I would rather be silent, 
since I cannot entertain you with an Iliad's 
length of these dear trifles. I must await my 
fate, though I have never yet found any thing 
more difficult; 

Qnalis popvtlea moerens philomela sub umbra 
Fiet noctem. 

You wish to know the effect of the Ode on 
Salem. My timidity delayed to give it her, and 
now I would not willingly present it after a 
much finer ode. 

I send you a copy of Haller's letter. I have 
kept the original, for what purpose you will 
easily guess. The better to understand the let- 
ter, you must know that I was before in cor- 
respondence with Haller, and that he had al- 
ready, as became so worthy a man, taken some 
trouble in Hanover to promote my fortune by 
procuring me an employment. Having declared 
that I would rather preside in a school than in 
a university, for nature has denied me the voice 
of an orator, the last account I received was 
that I must apply to Gessner, who would re- 
commend me to Wenthoff; but I will not owe 
the smallest obligation to a man who is not 
ashamed of offending Haller. The Messiah may 



85 
perhaps make my fortune with the prince of 
Wales, if it should become known to Glover 
and Mallet, who have great weight with the 
prince. 

Since I am so happy as to be allowed to lay 
open all my little concerns to you, I must tell 
you that it has been hinted to me that it would 
not be unpleasant if after Easter I gave up my 
tutorship. When love was my chief motive for 
coming here, I did not consider it so necessary 
to undertake such employments as I must do, 
if obliged to leave this situation without any 
other asylum. The change of my fortune through 
the means of princes and princesses is very un- 
certain. May I therefore venture to propose to 
you another trouble on my behalf? I have heard 
from a bookseller here, that a bookseller of Er- 
langen has inquired after me from him, in the 
name of the academy;.* You know Mr. Le 
Maitre in Erlangen. I know not what could 
be the views of the academy, but I will tell 
you mine. I should wish for an extraordinary 
professorship of some one of the liberal sciences, 
rhetoric or poetry in preference, with a stipend 
that should free me from the necessity of earn- 
ing the greater part of my living myself, which 
would fall very hard on me; and I particularly 

H 



86 
wish for this in an academy whose number is 
not yet very great. I might undertake such a 
post, till an opportunity more favourable to my 
leisure occurred; for I am rather fearful that 
my poetic years will be sooner over than those 
of others. At least they probably will not ex- 
tend to that age when Milton's began. 

Your Sketch of the Sublime I have formerly 
read. The wish I expressed to you extended to 
a further finishing of that sketch. I think it is 
worthy of you to surpass the great Longinus. 
But what would you do for examples, if 
you had not the inimitable prophets? If you 
can trust Kleist's poem on the Spring to a 
transcriber, I know that you will not deny me 
the pleasure of reading it after so many pains. 
I also want to know wnether the author of 
Noah, " who has the key that unlocks my 
heart," will finish his poem; and when and by 
whom Moses, which is mentioned in the friend- 
ly letters, was written? 

" Come, golden age; come thou who seldom deign'st 

" To visit Man, creative Genius, come! 
" Eternity's best child, 
" Spread over us thy radiant wing." 

I would send what I have ready of the Mes- 
siah* but that it is not yet returned to me from 
Leipsic. Ebert is gone to Gartner at Brunswic, 
and he has probably taken it with him. None 



87 
of our friends remain at Leipsic, except Gel- 
lert and Rabner. 

The Last Judgment is thus introduced into 
the Messiah. Adam is with the arising saints. 
He is made to inquire of the Messiah concern- 
ing the fate of his race, and at his own request 
will see a vision of the judgment. The catho- 
lics need fear no disturbance from me. Decide 
whether the following similie contradicts what 
I have just said. I can at all events leave it out. 

So Satan spake: 

His heart was full of blackest thoughts; 

Deform'd and hideous was his inmifet soul, 

The sinful spirit's most conceal'd recess. So lie 

Before the face of God the gloomy vaults 

Of th' Iberian Inquisition. Wall on wall, 

Abyss upon abyss, deep : n the earth, 

And full of stiff 'ning streams of guiltless blood: . . . 

Now the destroying Judge beckons his murderers; 

The iron doors re-echo to the depths 

Below, the cries of innocence to Heaven. 

Oh! could a Christian see these vaults of blood, 

Would he not look with fury on the judge, 

And clasp his hands, and weep, and cry to God 

For justice? 

May I beg of you one thing which may per- 
haps appear to betray a little vanity; if it were 
so, I would frankly acknowledge it; but it is not 
that; it is love. Love bids me beg of you to 
send me the Italian review of the Messiah while 
I remain here. Perhaps the divine maiden may 
smile upon those trophies. 



88 
LETTER VI. 

26th January, 1749. 

My dearest friend, 

AT a time when the minister in Hanover is 
seriously meditating, whether it would really 
be for the advantage of his Britannic majesty's 
hereditary dominions to give me some decent 
and not very laborious office; when the Mes- 
siah is perhaps lying in the antichamber where 
stands the bust of Pope, where Glover often 
passes; when it is, perhaps, because not yet 
handsomely printed, laid aside by a princess 
whose mother made the fortune of a woman 
only because she was Milton's daughter; at 
such a time are you, my friend, so generous as 
to invite me to your land of liberty! If this 
greatness of mind can be in any degree recom- 
pensed by knowing that I feel it in its full ex- 
tent, 'tis well; then take this trifling recom- 
pense. But suffer me to say something more 
affectionate to you. I will come to see you 
weep over the bones of your sons. I will come 
to wipe away the tears which perhaps I have 
caused to flow afresh; but you must also wipe 
away mine, for I must tell you that the destiny 
of my love is not yet unravelled. Now hope 



89 
appears to smile upon me, and now all is doubt- 
ful. I know not what you will think of the mat- 
ter. Perhaps you would think differently, if I 
could relate all circumstantially. I will only say 
two things — that you must not find the least 
fault with my incomparable Fanny, nor too 
much with my timidity. I only tremble at the 
thought that she should in any degree mistake 
my character, and not give me credit for being 
determined never to make her unhappy, even 
in the most trifling appendages of happiness. 
What peace I have hitherto enjoyed has been 
chiefly the consequence of the folio wing thought. 
When by a taste for virtuous deeds, and by 
some trifling good actions, which to us are not 
difficult, though to the vulgar they appear so, 
we have made a show of intending to be vir- 
tuous; then Providence seizes our whole heart, 
and puts this great question to us, whether we 
will here too submit, whether we will be vir- 
tuous even here? You see that this is a very 
comprehensive thought, but yet, when I mea- 
sure my love against it, I wonder that it has 
power to support me. Indeed I must frankly 
acknowledge that it alone does not. Some little 
hopes at times appear so smiling, that I know 

H2 



90 

not whether I can come to you, or when 

Without my Fanny what would be to me your 
beautiful country ,tne cheerful society of your and 
(if I may dare to say so) my friends, the liberty and 
leisure I used so much to enjoy? I cannot deny 
it, I am sometimes astonished at the degree of 
tenderness I feel for this angelic woman; but I 
will say no more, nor write again on the subject, 
till I can tell you something certain. I will send 
you, at another time, an ode to God, which no 
one has yet seen. 

M. Le Maitre has written to me. The pro- 
fessorship is of so little value, and at the same 
time is accompanied with so many inconveni- 
ences, that I do not wish to obtain it. You 
have made this excellent man also my friend. 
With what affection shall I embrace him when 
we meet! I request you to send me the French 
Review. Not on my own account, though I 
am much indebted to the author for his kindness. 
Fanny smiles when she finds me mentioned 
with approbation; and sometimes it escapes her, 
that she is on such occasions comparing me 
with the Briton.* 

I may be very well contented with my do- 
mestic circumstances. My little Weiss is age- 

* Milton. 



91 
nius; but he will, or must, apply to trade. He 
loves me very much. Haller, as he knows that 
I am now in such a situation, has been endea- 
vouring to discover privately whether I would 
undertake to instruct his son in the liberal sci- 
ences, and a letter has been given me to read, 
which he wrote on the subject to a friend in this 
country. You know the embarrassments which 
make me now so irrgsolute. I will soon send 
some of the Messiah to be submitted to your 
criticism. When I can escape from my cares, 
I sometimes finish a few lines, &x. 

LETTER VII. 

April 12, 1749. 

My dearest Bodmee, 

It is indeed requisite that I should take a 
journey to you, if I would express the whole 
force of that friendship which I ftel towards 
you. How singularly noble, and hpw numerous, 
are the exertions which you make on my ac- 
count. But I will quit this extensive field, for 
I must write a volume full of tenderness, if I 
would describe all the feelings of my heart 
towards you. This shall be the subject of my 
song when I shall be with you. . . . " The little 
Klopstock," as my Schmidt always calls me 



92 
when his heart is full, will certainly visit you; 
and perhaps weep by your side tears of sweet 
pleasure. At present the all-powerful Fanny 
detains me, and I can be detained by her alone^ 
. . . But you have betrayed my love to M. Le 
Maitre, and perhaps to Hagedorn. You may 
therefore depend upon it that I will not say a 
word to you about Fanny till my next letter, 
and in the present I wijj call you to account 
about an affair which arises from your treach- 
ery. You have, as I have been informed, per- 
mitted to be printed in the Freirniithige Nach- 
richten* an ode in which my love appears very 
evident. What will become of me? What will 
Fanny say? Giesecke has offended me much 
more, but perhaps you seduced him. He has 
allowed the ode, " When I am dead, &c." to be 
printed in the 3d vol. of the new collection. 
Justify yourself on this important subject. You 
must positively produce a satisfactory apology. 
Haller has sent me a letter from an English- 
man, whjch informs him that the Messiah was 
presented to the prince; that he received it fa- 
vourably, particularly in consideration of Haller, 
and that he would, without doubt, inquire af- 
ter the author. I have upon mature deliberation 

* A periodical paper printed at Berlin. 



93 
resolved to write myself to Glover, who has 
great influence with the prince. Had I not been 
in love, I might have suppressed this event. 
What is your opinion on the subject? 

LETTER VIII. 

17th May, 1749. 

Fanny has been to the fair* with her brother, 
and by this means I have discovered that you 
had sent a packet for me to Rabener. I must 
mention to you, that there is no certainty of 
finding Rabener, except at the fair: at any 
other time what you send to him for me might 
be delayed a great while. Tell the friend for 
whose soul the Messiah is so exactly calcula- 
ted, that he has an advantage over me, because 
I have been entirely precluded from the novels 
ty and the ardour attendant on the first reading. 
A youth who sees for the first time an amiable 
young woman, and at once feels that she was 
born for him, will feel more transport than the 
mother who bore and educated her. Tell him 
further that I particularly wish to know whe- 
ther he is desirous that Abbadona should be 
restored to happiness. 

You have afforded me much pleasure by the 
poem of Kleist. Fanny also has read it, and 

* At Leipsic. 



94 
with so much interest that I could not avoid 
giving her the manuscript. The passages re- 
specting the Nightingale, and the divine Doris, 
affected my whole soul. Kleist must absolute- 
ly complete this poem, &x. 

LETTER IX. 

7th June, 1749. 

I have now received your criticism. Con- 
tinue to advise me, for I feel a peculiar satis- 
faction in being conducted by you into the track 
of new thoughts. I request from you and Mr. 
Breitinger some remarks on my three first can- 
tos. I have determined that they shall be printed 
with two new cantos, to compose altogether the 
first volume. What do you now think in regard 
to your former proposal of a subscription, and 
how ought it to be arranged? Several booksel- 
lers solicit me for the publication of the work. 

I send you an ode, which no one has seen, 
not even Fanny or her brother. I composed it 
before the commencement of this year. It has 
often been the companion of my solitary hours; 
and you will discover from the subject why 
Fanny and Schmidt have not obtained a sight 
of it. Now, do you wish to know the fate of 
my love? I can tell nothing more than that it 



95 

now appears probable that I am beloved. You 
will believe that this probability is of no little 
importance to me. How happy should I be, if 
I could speak with confidence! Very much of 
what I consider as my happiness depends on 
this. How important many things now appear 
to me, which I before considered as trifling. I 
know that you will do all you can for me in this 
affair; and how dear will you be to me for so 
doing. 

Beloved by her, my heart will glow 
With warmer love for you. 

Perhaps my becoming known to the English 
may open for me a surer path. Hagedorn thinks 
that, by the assistance of Van de Hoek in Got- 
tingen, I should send a copy to the translator 
of Haller in the Gentleman's Magazine. Will 
you be so kind as to write to Haller on the 
subject, but in such a manner as that I may not 
be suspected of suggesting it? I know not whe- 
ther I may not alter my determination to write 
to Glover, &c. 



96 
LETTER X. 

Nov. 28, 1749. 

My dearest Bodmer, 

I should not so long have deferred writing 
to you, if my friend Schmidt had not been with 
me, and if I had not again been doubtful what 
answer I could give you respecting my journey. 
I have spent many golden days with him. Now, 
however, I have the satisfaction to assure you, 
that in the spring I will tell you all. I rejoice in 
the sweet names of Bodmer, Breitinger, and 
Hess, in the prospect of leisure and friendship; 
and I listen, as Schmidt says, to the whispers 
of these delightful thoughts. But now learn the 
conditions on which I shall come to you. My 
presence must be almost unobserved in }~our 
house. You must not make the smallest alte- 
ration on my account. This being premised, 
and decided as if you had given me the pledge 
of friendship in the golden age of the world, I 
will come. I am already well acquainted in idea 
with a certain country which I call Zurichia. 
Perhaps I may have formed a mistaken notion 
of it; but in the mean while I please myself with 
imagining a country more beautiful than any 
other in the world. According to my ideas, 



9T - 
there belong to a fine country, mountains, 
valleys, lakes, and what is far preferable, the 
abode of friends. How distant, and in what si- 
tuations, dwell Breitinger, Hirzel, Waser, Is- 
charner? And I must ask another question, 
which is connected with the country in regard 
to me, 

" Since now my life has reach'd the prime of youth;" 

How -near are you to any young ladies of your 
acquaintance, into whose society you may think 
I could be admitted? The heart of a young 
woman is an extensive scene of nature, into 
whose labyrinth a poet must frequently pene- 
trate, if he wishes to acquire profound kftow T - 
ledge. But these young ladies must not be made 
acquainted with my history,, lest they should 
put a restraint upon themselves without reason. 
This without reason attaches no censure to these 
amiable unknown beings. Even if they were to 
resemble Fanny, they would find, notwithstand- 
ing, that I will love only once in my life.* 

* Note by the German editor. ..." I will love only once.". . . 
" The reader will be surprised at this salto mortale, when he 
compares it with Klopstock's hopes expressed in the ninth let- 
ter. We might easily fill up the blank with well-known tales of 
what occurred in the history of his love between June and No- 
vember 1749; but we here publish only what is undoubtedly 
authentic, with an assurance that what we conceal would not 



98 
I have been sensibly affected by Henzi's 
death; indeed death never before touched me 
so nearly. Perhaps I am too severe on this oc- 
casion. I can in some degree pardon him who 
at the hour of death pretends to jest, because 
such an attempt indicates that his mind is far 
from being in a tranquil state; but he who can 
jest so naturally as Henzi, ought to employ his 
superior powers of mind in something more 
noble. It must be, because the events of futu- 
rity appeared to him uncertain, that he was re- 
solved at all events to carry his mirth « to the 
gates of Heaven. Peace to the soul of Henzi. 
I praise him for his composure; but I should 
praise him with more warmth and earnestness, 

bring the least disgrace on the heart or the character of our 
immortal Poet.'* 

The English editor regrets that the German was not more 
communicative on this interesting subject. It appears, however, 
that the reluctance which Klopstock felt.to involve the woman 
he loved, and the sister of his dearest friend, in difficulties, 
from which he was in vain endeavouring to extricate himself, 
prevented any proposal of marriage, notwithstanding the encou- 
ragement given by that generous friend, on whose bounty the 
unfortunate lover was at that time dependent. The lady was 
soon afterwards married; and Mrs. Klopstock's letters to Mr. 
Richardson will perhaps be thought to furnish a sufficient apo- 
logy for the poet, if it should appear that after three years, in 
which " he did what he could to die in a love cause,"* he was 
at last induced to break the resolution contained in his last letter 

to Eodmer. 

* Shakspeare, 



99 
if he had said, like lord Kilmarnock) "Ah, 
Forster, it is, however, very terrible!" 

The ode in the sixth volume of the miscel- 
laneous collection, " As in solitary night," Sec. 
is by Schmidt. How do you like Chevy- Chase, 
and the imitation of it, published in a former vol- 
ume? . . . Your translation of the ode, " When 
I am dead," has revived my former love for the 
Greek language; and in the height of my ar- 
dour I have translated the enclosed strophes. 
Perhaps you may not find them much in the 
spirit of the original; but perhaps Alcseus him- 
self would not have written better, had he been 
in a similar situation. 

Since I cannot yet fix the time of my departure 
from this place, I will write to you again either 
from hence, or from Leipsic. I shall be happy 
to have H. Schulthess for my travelling com- 
panion. I have found in Hanover a noble friend, 
who will endeavour to transmit the Messiah to 
the prince to whom it is dedicated, through a 
Mr. Von Schrader, who knows his royal nigh- 
ness's tempora fandu I am as sincerely an enemy 
to dedications, as I. am, with my whole heart, 

your friend. 

F. G. KLOPSTOCK. 



100 



The following letters were published in the correspondence o£ 
Mr. Richardson; and the ingenious Editor of that work was 
not mistaken in supposing that they would interest every feel- 
ing heart. She adds, " It is presumed that readers of taste 
will not wish that Mrs. Klopstock's letters had been put into 
better English." 



LETTER I. 

MRS. KLOPSTOCK TO MR. RICHARDSON. 

Hamburg, Nov. 29, 1757". 

Honoured Sir, 
Will you permit me to take this opportunity 
in sending a letter to Dr. Young, to address 
myself to you? It is very long ago that I wish- 
ed to do it. Having finished your Clarissa, (O 
the heavenly book!) I would have prayed you 
to write' the history of a manly Clarissa; but I 
had not courage enough at that time. I should 
have it no more to day, as this is my first En- 
glish^ letter, but I have it! It may be, because 
I am now Klopstock's wife; (I believe you know 
my husband by Mr. Hohorst,) and then I was 
only the single young girl. You have since 
written the manly Clarissa, without my prayer. 
O, you have done it to the great joy and thanks 



101 
of all your happy readers. Now you can write 
no more, you must write the history of an angel. 

Poor Hohorst! he is gone. Not killed in the 
battle, (he was present at two,) but by the fever. 
The Hungarian Hussars have taken your works? 
with our letters, and all that he was worth, a 
little time before his death. But the king of 
Prussia recompensed him with a company of 
cavalry. Poor friend! he did not long enjoy it! 
He has made me acquainted with all your lovely 
daughters. I kiss them all, with my best sis- 
terly kiss; but especially Mrs. Martha, of whom 
he says, s.he writes as her father. Tell her in 
my name, dear sir, if this be true, that it is an 
affair of conscience not to let print her writings. 
Though I am otherwise of the sentiment, that 
a woman, who writes not thus* or as Mrs. 
Kowe, should never let print her works. Will 
you pardon me this first long letter, sir? Will 
you tell me if I shall write a second? 

I am, honoured sir, your most humble ser- 
vant, 

M. KLGPSTOCK. 

i 2 



102 



LETTER II. 

TO MR. RICHARDSON, 

Hamburg, March 14, 175S. 

You are very kind, sir, to wish to know eve- 
ry thing of your Hamburg kindred. Then I 
will obey, and speak of nothing but myself in 
this letter. I was not the lady who hath been 
with two gentlemen from Gottenburg in Eng- 
land. If I had, never would I have waited the 
cold ceremony of introducing you to me. In 
your house I had been, before you knew that I 
was in England. That I shall, if ever I am so 
happy as to come there. We had a pretty pro- 
ject to do it in the spring to come, but I fear 
that we cannot execute it. The great fiend of 
friendship, war, will also hinder this, I think. 
I fear your Antigallicans exceedingly, more 
than the Gallicans themselves; they, I must 
confess it, are at least more civil with neutral ' 
ships. I pray to God to preserve you and Dr. 
Young till peace comes*. We have a short let- 
ter of Dr. Young, in which he complains of his 
health. How does he yet? And you, who are a 
youth to him, how do you do yourself? 



103 
You will know all what concerns me. Love, 
dear sir, is all what me concerns, and love shall 
be all what I will tell you in this letter. In one 
happy night I read my husband's poem, the 
Messiah. I was extremely touched with it. The 
next day I asked one of his friends, who was the 
author of this poem? and this was the first time I 
heard Klopstock's name. I believe I fell im- 
mediately in love with him; at the least, my 
thoughts were ever with him filled, especially 
because his friend told me very much of his 
character. But I had no hopes ever to see him, 
when quite unexpectedly I heard that he should 
pass through Hamburg. I wrote immediately 
to the same friend for procuring by his means 
that I might see the author of the Messiah, 
when in Hamburg. He told him that a certain 
girl in Hamburg wished to see him, and, for all 
recommendation, showed him some letters in 
which I made bold to criticise Klopstock's ver- 
ses. Klopstock came, and came tome. I must 
confess, that though greatly prepossessed of 
his qualities, I never thought him the amiable 
youth whom I found him. This made its effect. 
After having seen him two hours, I was obli- 
ged to pass the evening in a company which 
never had been so wearisome to me. \, could 



104 
not speak; I could not play; I thought I saw 
nothing but Klopstock. I saw him the next 
day, and the following, and we were very seri- 
ously friends; but on the fourth day he de- 
parted. It was a -strong hour, the hour of his 
departure. He wrote soon after, and from that 
time our correspondence began to be a very 
diligent one. I sincerely believed my love to 
be friendship. I spoke with my friends of no- 
thing but Klopstock, and showed his letters. 
They rallied me, and said I was in love. I ral- 
lied them again, and said they must have a very 
friendshipiess heart, if they had no idea of 
friendship to a man as well as a woman. Thus 
it continued eight months, in which time my 
friends found as much love in Kiopstock's let- 
ters as. in me. I perceived it likewise, but I 
would not believe it. At the last Klopstock 
said plainly that he loved; and I startled as for 
a wrong thing. I answered that it was no love, 
but friendship, as it was what I felt for him; 
we had not seen one another enough to love; 
as if love must have more time than friend- 
ship! This was sincerely my meaning, and I 
had this meaning till Klopstock came again to 
Hamburg. This he did a year after we had 
seen one another the first time. We saw, we 



105 
were friends; we loved, and we believed that we 
loved; and a short time after I could even tell 
Klopstock that I loved. But we were obliged 
to part again, and wait two years for our wed- 
ding. My mother would not let me marry a 
stranger. I could marry without her consent- 
ment, as by the death of my father my fortune 
depended not on her; but this was an horrible 
idea for me; and thank heaven that I have pre- 
vailed by prayers! At this time, knowing Klop- 
stock, she loves him as her lifely son, and 
thanks God that she has not persisted. * We 
married, and I am the happiest wife in the 
world. In some few months it will be four 
years that I am so happy; and still I dote upon 
Klopstock as if he w T ere my bridegroom. If 
you knew my husband, you would not wonder. 
If you knew his poem, I could describe him 
very briefly, in saying he is in all respects what 
he is as a poet. This I can say with all wifely 
modesty; but I dare not to speak of my hus- 
band; I am all raptures when I do it. And as 
happy as I am in love, so happy am I in friend- 
ship; in my mother, two elder sisters, and five 
other women. How rich I am! Sir, you have 
willed that I should speak of myself, " but I 



106 
fear that I have done it too much. Yet you see 
how it interests me. I have the best compli- 
ments for you of my dear husband. My com- 
pliments to all yours. Will they increase my 
treasure of friendship? I am, sir, your humble 

servant, 

M. KLOPSTOCK. ' 



LETTER III. 

TO MR. RICHARDSON. 

Hamburg, May 6, 1T58. 

It is not possible to tell you, sir, what a joy 
your letters give me. My heart is very able to 
esteem the favour that you, my dear Mr. Rich- 
ardson, in your venerable age, are so conde- 
scending good to answer so soon the letters of 
an unknown young woman, who has no other 
merit than a heart full of friendship, and of all 
those sentiments which a reasonable soul must 
feel for Richardson, though at so many miles' 
distance. It is a great joyful thought, that 
friendship can extend herself so far, and that 
friendship has no need of seeing, though this 
seeing would be celestial joy to hearts like ours, 
(shall I be so proud to say ours?) and what will 
it be when so many really good souls, knowing 



107 
or not knowing- in this world, will see one ano- 
ther in the future, and be there friends! 

It will be a delightful occupation for me to 
make you more acquainted with my husband's 
poem. Nobody can do it better than I, being 
the person who knows the most of that which 
is not published, being always present at the 
birth of the young verses, which begin by frag- 
ments here and there, of a subject of which his 
soul is just then -filled. He has many great 
fragments of the whole -work read}*. You may 
think that persons who love as we do, have no 
need of two chambers; we are always in the 
same: I with my little work, still, still, only 
regarding sometimes my husband's sweet face, 
which is so venerable at that time, with tears of 
devotion, and all the sublimity of the subject. My 
husband reading me his young verses, and suf- 
fering my criticisms. Ten books are published, 
which I think probably the middle of the whole. 
I will, as soon as I can, translate you the argu- 
ments of these ten books, and what besides I 
think of them. The verses of the poem are with- 
out rhymes, and are hexameters; which sort of 
verses my husband has been the first to intro- 
duce in our language, we being still closely at- 
tached to rhymes and iambics. I suspect the 



108 
gentleman who has made you acquainted with 
the Messiah is a certain Mr. Kaiser of Gb'ttin- 
gen, who has told me at his return from En- 
gland, what he has done; and he has a sister like 
her whom you describe in your first letter. 

And our dear Dr. Young has been so ill! But 
he is better. I thank God, along with you. O 
that his dear instructive life may be extended, 
if it is not against his own wishes! I read lately 
in the newspaper that Dr. Young was made 
bishop of Bristol. I must think it. is another 
Young: how could the king make him only 
bishop, and bishop of Bristol, while the place 
of Canterbury is vacant! I think the king knows 
not at all that there is a Young who illustrates 
his reign. And you, my dear friend, have not 
hope of cure of a severe nervous malady! How 
I trembled when I read it! I pra}^ to God to give 
you, at the least, patience and alleviation. I 
thank you heartily for the cautions you give me, 
and my dear Klopstock, on this occasion. 
Though I can read very wel.l your handwriting, 
you shall write no more if it is incommodious 
to -you. 'Be so good to dictate only to Mrs. 
Patty; it will be very agreeable to have so amia- 
ble a correspondent; and then I will, still more 
than now, preserve the two of your own hand- 



109 
writing as treasures. I am very glad, sir, you 
will take my English as it is. I know very well 
that it may not always be English, but I thought 
for you it was intelligible. My husband asked, 
as I was writing my first letter, if 1 would not 
write French? No, said I, I will not write in 
this pretty but fade language to Mr. Richard- 
son, though so polite, so cultivated, and no 
longer fade in the mouth of Bossuet. As far as 
I know, neither we, nor you, nor the Italians, 
have the word fade. How have the French found 
this characteristic word for their nation? Our 
German tongue, which only begins to be cul- 
tivated, has much more conformity with the 
English than the French. 

I wish, sir, I could fulfil your wish of bring- 
ing you acquainted with so many good people 
as you think of. Though I love my friends 
dearly, and though they are good, I have how- 
ever much to pardon, except in the single 
Klopstock alone. He is good, really good, good 
at the bottom, in all his actions, in all the fold- 
ings of his heart. I know him; and sometimes 
I think if we knew others in the same manner, 
the better we should find them; for it may be 
that an action displeases us, which would please 

K 



J 10 
us if we knew its true aim and full extent. No 
one of my friends is so happy as I am; but no 
one had courage to marry as I did. They have 
married, as people marry; and they are happy 
as people are happy. Only one, as I may say, 
my dearest friend, is unhappy, though she had 
as good a purpose as myself. She has married 
in my absence; but had I been present, I might, 
it may be, have been mistaken in her husband 
as well as she. How long a letter this is again! 
But I can write no short ones to you. Compli- 
ments from my husband, and compliments to 
all yours, always, even though I should not 
say it. ' 

M. KLOPSTOCK. 



Ill 

LETTER IV. 

TO MR. RICHARDSON. 

Hamburg, Aug. 26, 1758. 

Why think you, sir, that I answer so late? I 
will tell you my reasons. But before all, how 
does Miss Patty, and how do yourself? Have 
not you guessed that I, summing up all my 
happinesses, and not speaking of children, had 
none? Yes, sir, this has been my only wish un- 
gratified for these four years. I have been more 
than once unhappy with disappointments; but 
yet, thanks, thanks to God, 1 am in full hope 
to be mother in the month of November. The 
little preparations for my child and child-bed 
(and they are so dear to me!) have taken so 
much time, that I could not answer your letter, 
nor give you the promised scenes of the Mes- 
siah. This is likewise the reason wherefore I am 
still here, for properly we dwell at Copenhagen. 
Our staying here is only a visit, but a long one, 
which we pay my family. I not being able to 
travel yet, my husband has been obliged to 
make a little voyage to Copenhagen. He is yet 
absent; a cloud over my happiness! He will 



112 

soon return; but what does that help? He is 
yet equally absent. We write to each other 
every post, but what are letters to presence? 
But I will speak no more of this little cloud; 
I will only tell my happiness. But I cannot tell 
you how I rejoice! A son of my dear Klop- 
stock's! O when shall I have him? It is long 
since I have made the remark that geniuses do 
not engender geniuses; no children at all, bad 
sons, or, at the most, lovely daughters, like you 
and Milton. But a daughter or a son, only with 
a good heart, without genius, I will neverthe- 
less love dearly. 

I think that about this time a nephew of 
mine will wait on you. His name is Witelhem, 
a young rich merchant, who has no bad quali- 
ties, and several good, which he has still to 
cultivate. His mother was I think twenty years 
older than I, but we other children loved her 
dearly like a mother. She had an excellent cha- 
racter, but is long dead. This is no letter, but 
only a newspaper of your Hamburg daughter. 
When I have my husband and my child, I will 
write you more, if God gives me health and 
life. You will think that I shall be not a mother 
only, but a nurse also; though the latter (thank 



113 

God that the former is not so too!) is quite 

against fashion and good breeding, and though 

nobody can think it possible to be always with 

the child at home. 

M. KLOPSTOCK. 

Note— Mrs. Klopstock died on the 28th of November, 1752. 



K 2 



POSTHUMOUS WRITINGS 

or 

MARGARET KLOPSTOCK. 

Published at Hamburgh in the year 1759. 
Introduction, by F. G. Klop stock. 

Death has deprived me of her whose affection 
made me as happy as she was made by mine. 
Our friends well know with what tenderness we 
loved. The following pages will show why I 
am compelled, and willingly submit to refrain 
from all complaint. This is one reason why I 
shall not write a poem, which many have ex- 
pected from me, even when I may be more ca- 
pable of it than I am at present. I think that, 
before the public, a man should speak of his 
wife with the same modesty as of himself; and 
how prejudicial would the observance of this 
principle be to the enthusiasm required in 
poetry. The reader, moreover, and not without 
reason, thinks himself justified in refusing im- 
plicit credit to the panegyrist of his beloved; 
and my love for her who made me the happiest 



116 

of men, is too sincere to let me allow my read- 
ers to call it in question. Another circumstance 
which makes poems of this kind uninteresting 
is that we have too many of them. As these 
considerations would have restrained my pen, 
even if my departed friend had left nothing that 
could be communicated to the world, it will 
easily be imagined what pleasure it must be to 
me to have the power of publishing some little 
manuscripts by which she erects a monument 
to herself. I am so proud of her doing this with 
her own hand, that I will not add to the collec- 
tion the odes I formerly wrote to her. Should 
this pride require forgiveness, I hope to obtain 
it, when it is recollected that I am not proud of 
myself, but only of my friends. 

I have nothing more to say of these little 
pieces than that they were not written with the 
intention of erecting a monument to herself. 
Some subjects are particularly interesting to 
us; we write our thoughts on them, and per- 
haps show them to a few friends, without ever 
thinking of publication. It is above two years 
since she thus began to write down some of 
her favourite ideas, during my absence, and she 
was confused and distressed when I surprised 
her at this employment, and prevailed with her 



117 
to read to me what she had written. — O she 
was all the happiness of my life! what have I 
not lost in losing her! But I will not complain. 
I shall perhaps, at some future time print 
some of her letters, or at least some fragments 
of them. I can publish only a few of them, 
having some hours after her death burnt most 
of those which we wrote to each other before 
our marriage. I was led to do this by the idea 
that I might be tempted to read them, and that 
they would agitate me too much. I have since 
found some which had been kept in a different 
place, and I will beg my friends who have let- 
ters from her to send them to me. My inten- 
tion is, as I have already said, to publish them. 
Some friends of virtue may perhaps be anxious 
to know more of this heavenly mind. 



118 



Extracts from the Correspondence between Klopstock and Mar- 
garet Moller, when their marriage was delayed, and he left 
ker to return to Copenhagen, in Oct. 1752. See page 35. 



LETTER L* 

I must write to you this evening, and you 
shall find my letter at Copenhagen. Best of 
men, you ought to find in me a wife desirous 
to imitate you as far as it can be possible. I will 
— indeed I will, resemble you as much as I can. 
My soul leans upon yours.— This is the even- 
ing on which we read your Ode to God. Do 
you remember it? If I can preserve as much 
fortitude as I have acquired this evening, I 
will not shed a tear at our parting. You will 
leave me, but I shall again receive you, and 
receive you as your wife. Alas! after ano- 
ther day you will be gone far, far from me, 
and it will be long before I see you again; but 
I must restrain my grief. God will be with you, 
your God and mine. When you are gone, I 
shall be more firm than I am now, as I have al- 
ready assured you. I trust in our gracious God, 
that he will restore you to me, that He will make 

* This letter was written before Klopstock left Hamburg, and 
received by him at Copenhagen. 



119 
me happy. He knows that through you I shall 
be continually improving; He has already be- 
stowed on us so much happiness, that I trust 
He will complete our felicity. Begin then your 
journey, only let me weep, indeed 1 cannot help 
it. May God be with you! O my God, it is 
Klopstock for whom I pray. Be Thou with him; 
show thy mercy to me in granting this request. 
If my gratitude can be acceptable to Thee, 
Thou knowest how grateful I am. O thou All- 
Merciful, how much felicity hast Thou already 
vouchsafed to me; felicity for which I could 
not have presumed to ask. O still be gracious 
to me, to my Klopstock. I recommend him to 
Thee! 

LETTER II. 

I have you no longer, my Klopstock; you 
are already far from me. May you but be safe! 
What are you doing now? I wish I could an- 
swer that question. But I know, at least I hope 
so. You are well, you are tranquil, you are 
thinking of your Meta, of your ever-beloved 
Meta. You are thinking of me, as I am ever 
thinking of you; for your heart and your affec- 
tion are iike my own. I could not have imagined 
that absence would be so very heavy. What 1* 



120 
life without you? but what is life with you? 
Now all reminds me of the time which is mine 
no more; of my happiness in having always 
near me my best beloved friend, who loves me 
so tenderly. Alas! I shall not see you again for 
a long time; but if I knew that you were safely 
arrived at Copenhagen, I think I should be 
easy. Yes, my Kiopstock, be assured that I am 
as tranquil as I can possibly be in your absence. 
I am for ever yours; you love me, and I spare 
myself for your sake. I wish you could see 
how I restrain my tears. Our friends are 
very kind, and watch me tenderly. They en- 
deavour to render every thing as pleasant to 
me as they can; but what is all this without you? 
lam expecting Schmidt, who yesterday brought 
me your last farewel, and told me how much 
you had wished to return from the post-house* 
My best friend, farewel! My constant prayers 
attend vou. 



* 121 

LETTER III. 

KLOPSTOCK TO META. 

Yesterday the same accident which happened 
lately to your letter occurred again. I am not, 
however, uneasy, for I am sure that you have 
written to me. With what transport do I think 
of you, my Meta, my only treasure, my wife! 
When in fancy I behold you, my mind is filled 
with the heavenly thoughts which so often fer- 
vently and delightfully occupy it; and while I 
think of you, they are still more fervent, more 
delightful. They glow in my breast, but no 
words can express them. You are dearer to 
me, than all who are connected with me by 
blood or by friendship, dearer than all which is 
degr to me besides in the creation. My sister, 
my friend, you are mine by love, by pure and 
holy love, which providence, (O how grateful 
am I for the blessing!) has made the inhabitant 
of my soul upon earth. It appears to me that 
you were born my twin sister in Paradise. At 
present indeed we are not there, but we shall 
return thither. Since we have so much happi- 
ness here, what shall we have there? 

Remember me to all our friends. My Meta, 
my for ever beloved, I am entirely yours. 



122 
LETTER IV. 

META TO KLOPSTOCK. 

I could not write to you till this moment, my 
beloved Klopstock; I am in such good health, 
that I have been out every day, and am now 
returned from Schmidt's house to this. With 
the most perfect sincerity I assure you that I 
have not been so well since 1749, as during 
the last week. Imagine how much I must 
feel in the hope that I am thus restored for you. 
I did not expect to be ever again as well as I 
am now. Praised be our God for it! and you 
will praise Him with me. Yesterday evening, 
when I had retired from company, and enjoyed 
a very delightful hour, I said to myself, per- 
haps my Klopstock is now worshipping God 
with me, and at that thought my devotions be- 
came more fervent. How delightful it is to 
address ourselves to God, to feel his influence 
on our minds! Thus how happy may we be 
even in this world; but you say right, if our 
happiness is so great here, what will it be here- 
after, and then we shall never be separated. 

Farewel, my beloved! I shall think of you 
continually to-morrow. The holiest thoughts 
harmonise with my idea of you; of you who 



123 

are more holy than I am, who love our great 
Creator not less than I dc. More I think you 
cannot love Him; not more, but in a more exal- 
ted manner. How happy am I to belong to you. 
Through you I shall be continually improving 
in piety and virtue. I cannot express the feel- 
ings of my heart on this subject, but they are 
very different from what they were half a year 
ago. Before I was beloved by you, I dreaded 
my greatest happiness, I was uneasy lest it 
should withdraw me from God. How much 
was I mistaken! It is true that adversity leads 
us to God; but such felicity as mine cannot 
withdraw me from Him, or I could not be wor- 
thy to enjoy it. On the contrary, it brings me 
nearer to Him. The sensibility, the gratitude, 
the joy, all the feelings attendant on happiness, 
make, my devotion the more fervent. 



124 



LETTER V, 

KLOPSTOGK TO META. 

It is now Sunday evening, my dearest, and I 
have staid at home, not only because I like to 
do so on a Sunday, and because I wished to pro- 
ceed with the Messiah, but also because I love 
to be alone with you, and therefore the society 
which formerly I thought not uninteresting is 
now indifferent tome. But though I have been 
with you all this evening, my best beloved, yet 
now first the thought of writing to you occurred 
to me. With what sweet peace of mind do I 
contemplate in eveiy point of view the thought 
that you are mine, that I am yours. O Meta, 
how entirely are you formed to make me hap- 
py; and you are bestowed upon me. Can there 
be so much happiness here below? Yet what is 
the greatest earthly happiness to that which we 
hope to enjoy in a future state? Yes, my be- 
loved, for ever.* 

* These extracts make no part of Mr. Klopsiock's publica- 
tion, but as they are mentioned by him page 117, they are in- 
serted in this collection. They are taken from the manuscript 
letters sent to the editor by Dr. Mumssen: se^ his 8th letter. 



125 



LETTERS 

FROM THE DEAD TO THE LIVING.* 
BY MARGARETT KLOPSTOCK. 

LETTER I. 

O MY friend, my brother, how happy am I! 
What it is to be blessed! But how can I de- 
scribe it to you? Your language has no words, 
your soul no ideas of this perfect happiness, of 
this never-ending bliss. My brother, you will 
one day share it with me. Then will you know 
what it is to be blessed. Amidst the many joys 
of Heaven, what joy is this, that my brother, 
my Semida, shall one day be happy with me! 
We shall then love each other with even more 
purity, more warmth than we have loved on 
earth. It is here alone that friendship is perfect. 
Yet I feel that a brother, whom I have so long 

* It appears from Klopstock's ode to Bodmer, that he was 
extremely partial to the writings of the celebrated Mrs. Rowe, 
which probably suggested to Mrs. Klopstocfc the idea of the 
following letters; but it will, I believe, be allowed that *hf 
greatly excels the model from which they are copied. 

i2 



126 
known, with whom I have been so long united, 
I should love differently from all the inhabitants 
of heaven. With tenderness I should love him. 
. . . Abdiel I love with reverence. This exal- 
ted friend was my protecting angel. . . . O how 
the angels love mankind! 

When my soul had scarcely left her earthly 
dwelling, ye were all weeping over it; . . . but 
my brother was resigned. As I soared aloft, 
unknowing how to tread, the new paths of air, 
there appeared . . . think of this, my Semida . . . 
there appeared to me your form. With open 
arms, with the transport of an unembodied soul, 
I hastened towards it; for I thought you also 
were dead, and that we should be blessed to- 
gether. " I am not thy brother," said the spirit 
in a gentle voice, "I am Abdiel> thy guardian 
angel. I put on the form of thy Semida, that 
thy yet scarce opened eyes might not be daz- 
zled by the splendour of an angel. Come, I will 
be thy guide through these new paths. I was 
thy guide on earth. I loved thee more than thou 
didst love Semida; and so shall I now for ever 
love thee. I will be thy Semida till he come to 
us, and then will we three be friends for ever. 
How much affection wilt thou first learn in hea- 



127 
vcn, thou who hast already felt so much on 
earth! But come, I will lead thee to the abode of 
the blessed." O Semida, now your lan- 
guage fails. Of the glory of the Uncreated I can 
tell you nothing. Fear Him, love Him: go on 
living as you have lived, and advance continu- 
ally towards perfection. Then will you taste, 
then will you feel, what even the blest cannot 
express, what Go© has prepared for those who 
love Him! 



128 

LETTER II. 

My dearest Mother, 

I am allowed to write to you. O that I could 
tell you how happy your Sunim is! I spoke the 
language of the earth but imperfectly, and now 
I speak a far different one; how then can I ex- 
press myself? Beloved mother, I see you still 
before me as I lay in your bosom when I died. 
I knew not what it was to die; I only felt such 
pain as I had never felt before, and I saw you 
weep. O how I felt that you should weep! I 
would have said, . . . my mother! . . . but I could 
not speak. I hung my little arms trembling 
around yours. You will remember it; for then 
you wept more abundantly. Now it grew dark 
around me, and I could not §«e you. I knew 
not how it was, but I heard your voice. I heard 
you pray to my Redeemer for me. I prayed 
with you; for often had I prayed with you before. 
And now I felt a sudden pressure on my heart, 
and now I could see again; . . . but how different 
I felt from what I was before! I ran to you, and 
embraced your knees, but you did not perceive 
it. I said, "My dearest mother!" ... but you 
did not hear me. I was so light, I flew when I 



129 

would have walked. At length I saw my own lit- 
tle body. I saw you lay it on the bed, kneel by it, 
and lift your hands and eyes to heaven, with a 
look, like my new friends the angels. Then 
you wept no more, but became quite com- 
posed and resigned. I heard you say, " The 
Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; 
blessed be the name of the Lord!". . . I heard 
too what you said to my father, for I still fol- 
lowed you. " Sunim 13 dead," you said to him, 
" Sunim is with God:" . . . and my father be- 
gan to weep aloud, and said, the only heir of 
his name and fortune was now dead, and all 
was lost to him. How gently did you lead him 
back; how sweetly speak of God, and of eter- 
nity! 

I had now heard that I was dead, but knew 
not what it meant; until a heavenly form came 
to me, and gently led me away; for I thought 
of nothing but remaining with you. This hea- 
venly form was my Salem, whom I love as I 
love you, and who led me to the world I now 
inhabit. It is a star where all the souls of chil- 
dren come when they are dead; and where the 
heavenly Salem prepares us for supreme bliss. 
O that you could see this world, and know how 
it contributes to our present happiness! Here 



130 
too we have sensible objects, which instruct 
and prepare us for something higher; but Sa- 
lem does this still more. With what rapture do 
I listen, when he tells us of the Great Creator, 
of the heaven of the blessed, of the host of an- 
gels, and of the vision of God, which we shall 
attain when our knowledge shall be ripe enough. 
I know not whether this will be on that great 
day when the earth shall be judged, or sooner. 
Salem has not revealed this to me; and I am 
already sufficiently happy in knowing that I 
shall, at some future time, assuredly go there. 
O, how happy am I, even here! 

But, my dear mother, ... for I must come to 
it af last, . . . how I grieve for thee, thou best 
of mothers! Yet Salem says, it is better you 
should know beforehand, for then you can 
prepare for it. Ah, my mother, the son whom 
Go d has given you in my place, who is so like 
me, who is called Sunim too, ... he shall also 
die. My mother, now, for the first time in this 
world, I weep. Will you have strength to bear 
this second trial? O pray to God for strength; 
I will pray with you. Your former victory 
pleased the Almighty. Salem told me so. 
Offend not by impatience Him whom you have 
once already pleased by resignation. It is hard, 



131 

very hard, my mother. I feel it with you; but Sa- 
lem says, God loves you, and therefore does He 
send these trials. O then, offend not God, who so 
loves us all; who makes your first Sunim so hap- 
py; who will make the second happy also! No, 
you will not murmur, I know it. You will pa- 
tiently endure what God has appointed for 
you; and then will you also be blest. What 
bliss wilt thou at once attain, thou who hast 
advanced so far on earth! 



132 

LETTER III. 

My Daughter, 

It is long since I died. It was only a few 
hours after your birth. You know me not, but 
I love you. How can I help loving my own 
daughter, and the daughter too of the best of 
husbands! You have heard from my sister, how 
your father and I loved each other. Ours was 
not a love that first arose in marriage, the work 
of chance; it was founded on virtue, and on the 
sympathy of our hearts. We had chosen each 
other. . . . And will the daughter of such a mar- 
riage venture to take a husband whom she 
scarcely knows, merely because he is of her 
own rank, and can make her still richer? How 
can you think so lightly of marriage? Marriage 
fixes your fate, my daughter. The whole of 
your former life is but a preparation to this 
longer, to this more important life. All your 
temporal happiness depends on your choice of 
a husband; and how nearly is the eternal con- 
nected with it! What do you know of the man 
to whom you are on the point of giving your 
hand? Have you once considered, Melissa, 
whether he is the man on whose support you 



133 
could lean, through all the crooked ways of life? 
Will he lead you at last to the throne of the 
Almighty, and say, " Here is the wife whom 
Thou hast given me?" O Melissa, can a man 
do this, who never thinks of eternity? A man 
who wastes the latter half of the day amongst 
trilling pastimes, and to whom the former half 
is so wearisome a load. Fool that he is! even 
his body emaciated by excess does not remind 
him that his time will be vtry short. And shall 
my Melissa be the portion of such a man? Do 
you expect to reform him? Ah, Melissa, such 
is the foolish confidence so many of you place 
in your own powers. A man so fastidious in 
every thing, how soon will he be tired of a 
wife! A man who knows not serious reflection, 
how will he endure it from a woman? Will he 
even have time to listen to you? A man who 
flies from solitude, to whom a conversation with 
a rational friend is insupportable, who must be 
in company, will he talk with his wife of things 
which concern the soul? Melissa, you deceive 
yourself* Your tender heart will not avail you; 
he understands nothing of the heart; and when 
tenderness avails not a woman, what can help 
her? Religion? Do you believe that a man of 
such morals has any religion? No — he has none. 

M 



134 
He will even try to rob you of yours; and should 
you retain it, he will make your children laugh 
at you for it. You tremble, my daughter. Yes 
— you have reason. Think to what misery a 
thoughtless step exposes you. It sacrifices your 
temporal, and risks your eternal welfare. 

What happiness can you enjoy with a man 
who never thinks? who supposes he makes you 
happy by dragging you into company, with 
whom you cannot speak of God, of eternity, 
of the peace, the security, the happiness of 
friendship, and of its higher degree, connubial 
tenderness; of the education of your innocent 
children, and of a thousand such interesting 
subjects? How wretched will you be with a man 
whom you cannot love! Such a man Melissa 
never can love; and how hard will you find it 
to obey, when you do not love. Will you not 
often wish to be rid of your duty? And how 
easily may this wish lead you to throw it off. 
How will you be able to educate your children? 
Should nature be strong enough to make you 
love the children even of such a man,* should 
you wish to educate them well, will you have 
the power? O how much of the good you do, 
will he destroy! And above all, what will be- 
come of your soul with such a husband? Have 



135 
you never considered in what danger it is? A 
man who has no religion, (a man of such morals 
can have none,) will he suffer his wife to have 
any? If you have no affection for him, you will 
most easily retain it; but even then you will 
grow careless in it, because your husband does 
not encourage, strengthen, lead you continually 
on, and like a guardian angel watch over your 
tender soul. But if, from pity, from dut}^, or 
from a prejudiced partiality, you still love him, 
then fear the most for your soul! The man who 
knows that he is beloved, finds it easy to shake 
the principles of a weak woman. Therefore 
tremble, ye Melissas, when ye make your 
choice, tremble for your eternal happinesb! 
Choose none but a christian. Choose not a free- 
thinker, who laughs at you and your religion. 
Choose not one who would degrade you to the 
darkness of natural religion. Choose not one — 
O shudder at the thought! — who would rob you 
of your Redeemer, your only salvation; and 
would debase his most exalted divinity to no- 
thing more than a great and good man. Neither 
choose a sceptic. He may be a virtuous man; 
God may have patience with him; but to you 
is not allotted the portion of wisdom to convince 
him, and you put yourself in danger of doubt- 



136 
ing with him. Choose a christian, who in his 
strong hand will lead you through the slipper}' 
world; and at last, to the throne of the Redeem- 
er. Then, together will ye come, my Melissa,, 
and taste and feel what I now feel with my hus- 
band, my christian husband; and yet greater 
will be our happiness, when she whom our 
souls love enjoys it with us! 



LETTER IV. 



► 



I loved you much, my sister, while yet I lived 
on the same earth with you, and I love you still. 
Can I better prove it, than by employing this 
uncommon method of being useful to you? I 
should have said to you, on earth, all that I am 
now going to say, had I lived longer; for it re- 
quires not heavenly wisdom: but while I lived, 
you were so young, that I could do no more 
than just) begin to form your heart. I rejoice, 
that from this early seed has sprung already so 
much good. You tread a better path than many 
of your sisters. You do not cleave to the super- 
ficial, the light, the frivolous, the vain, the no- 
thing of the earth; but still, Melinda, you cleave 
to the earth. I rejoice to see you prefer stillness 
to noise; the society of your husband and chil- 



137 
dren to those assemblies which are also called 
society. I rejoice that you prefer the fulfilment 
of your duties towards your husband and chil- 
dren, and the little affairs which are entrusted 
to the narrow sphere of your sex, to such empty 
pleasures; but yet, Melinda, you cleave to the 
earth, and only to the earth. It is proper, it is 
right, to perform the duties w r hich you perform; 
but it is not enough to perform them only. We 
are not made for the little duties of mortality 
alone, but for the higher duties of eternity. Let 
it be your first endeavour to know your Crea- 
tor and Redeemer. You believe in him; but 
how do you believe? Have you examined the 
grounds of that belief, and how have you been 
convinced? Do you try to be present in thought 
with God, as He is present with you? Do you 
with your whole heart, with all your feelings, 
love Him who hath so loved you? Are you suffi- 
ciently attentive, earnest, strict, that your heart 
be pure before Him who sees into the inmost 
soul; who sees each deed, even to its motive? 
To comprehend all the duties of society in one, 
dost thou to others as thou wouldst they should 
do to thee? O Melinda, see what is wanting in 
in you? You perform the little, but you delay 
the great, the important duties. Employ your 

m2 



138 
leisure, (for of the time which God has lent 
you, an account must be given,) employ it in 
thinking of God. Think of his love, think of it 
continually, and learn to feel it. This is our 
first duty, and how easy a duty it is! From this 
flow all the others. Thou canst not find it diffi- 
cult to love that God, who, for so happy a 
world, and for a still happier eternity, hath 
created, redeemed, and sanctified thee; who 
hath reserved for thee such bliss! O Melinda, 
were not even angels mute when they would 
speak of this, what transports would thy sister 
now proclaim to thee! But it has not entered 
into the heart of man, it cannot enter into the 
heart of man, what God has prepared for us; 
what I already feel, and thou shalt feel. O my 
sister, thou who dost no evil, but not enough 
of good, (and that the Holv One will punish,) 
allow thyself to be awakened to eternal hap- 
piness! 



139 



LETTER V. 



Little dost thou expect, O Lorenzo, now 
after a year, to hear of thy friend; ah, rather 
say, of thy companion in dissipation, for a con- 
nexion like ours deserves not the name of friend- 
ship; little dost thou now expect to receive any 
account of me. Thou art right. Who sends ac- 
counts from this dreadful prison? In common 
with the terrific spirits our seducers, we hate 
the whole human race; and we hate Him too — 
Him whom I am forced to confess, whom on 
earth I endeavoured to deny, whom yet I would 
deny, but cannot. O ye, yet mortals! ye who 
yet can comfort yourselves with his love, ye 
cannot conceive what it is to know God only 
in his omnipotence! God without love! Loren- 
zo, I feel a mixture of cruelty and compassion. 
One thought says, I will save him from misery 
by my example; and another says, I will rejoice 
in his torture! Where wast thou on the day of 
terror? Where wast thou, that thou wast not 
buried with me in the ruins of Lisbon? For 
hadst thou died, thou hadst been here. Hear 
then my story, for thou knowest it not. Ye 
found not my body; it was burnt. — Hear me! 



140 
From the excesses of the night I yet lay in a 
deep sleep. The morning dawn had beheld my 
crimes. I waked in terror at the shaking of the 
earth. At the same moment the house fell in. 
" 'Tis He, 'tis He? I cried, " He kills me!" 
For who can totally deny Him, the Fearful One? 
We feel^when we sin, that we cannot; but we 
stupify ourselves. I had almost prayed, but I 
could not. I knew not how to pray; and the 
anxiety to save my life absorbed the thought of 
God. At length I worked my way from out of 
the ruins of my dwelling. I hastened on, with- 
out any accident. This made me feel secure. I 
met with her — perhaps she is now a saint — her 
whom I so thoughtlessly seduced to stain her 
sex with the same crimes that we stain ours 
with. " Ah, seducer," said she, " profligate! 
repent, repent, or we are this moment lost!" 
It seemed to me ridiculous to hear her preach 
repentance; I told her so, and asked how she 
could suffer herself to be alarmed by such an 
accident. O Lorenzo, the words stuck in my 
throat! A house fell down and crushed both her 
and me. She was soon dead. I only saw her 
raise her eyes to heaven, and I have not found, 
her here. I was much mangled; I could not die. 
I beheld once more the setting sun. I rolled 



141 
myself over in blood and dust, and saw beside 
me the old man who was the constant object of 
our ridicule. How peacefully he died! I would 
have given my whole life to have died like him. 
" Redeemer! Saviour!" in a soft voice I heard 
him say. How could I now believe a Saviour? 
I never had believed him. 

I died; that is, I changed my agony, that 
dreadful agony, for one more dreadful. I plunged 
into the abyss of perdition. And now 7 , Lorenzo, 
wilt thou come to me? Wilt thou, repent? Can 
Lorenzo repent? Thou canst, since she could. 
But accursed be thou; accursed be she; if yet 
I have power to curse, accursed be ye all, for 
having so great a share in my ruin! Ye must 
all come to me, all suffer what I suffer. I can- 
not bear ye should be less miserable than I am! 
O He! He who sits in judgment! There is a 
God, Lorenzo! There is a conscience! There 
is unutterable woe! 



142 



LETTER VI. 



Aristus, I fell in the unfortunate due. By 
thy hand I died! And I had been condemned, 
were not the mercy of the Eternal without mea- 
sure; mercy to you incomprehensible, if ye 
knew what ye are. O Aristus, thou knowest 
not thyself, thou knowest not thy God! Thou 
hast scarcely thought of his omnipotence; still 
less of his mercy. Thou dost still remain in 
darkness, the thoughtlessness in which thou 
wast brought up. Thy father thought nothing 
needful for thee but courage; thy profession re- 
quired not virtue and religion; and thou didst 
not require them from thy immortal soul. O 
how melancholy a thought it is, that the pro- 
fession which makes us more conversant with 
death than age and sickness do, that it should 
know the least of God! Thou art not an infidel, 
and thou art not a christian. O miserable friend! 
— for thou wert my friend, according to our 
faint ideas of friendship, look into thyself, and 
tremble! There is a God; thou art immortal. 
Thou wast cast oft* by God, for thou hadst sin- 
ned. God became man in order to redeem thee; 
and thou may est now be for ever happy! This 



143 
thou knowest. Thou canst at least remember 
that it was taught thee in thy childhood, but 
thou hast never thought on this. If thou hadst 
died in my place, and God had not had mercy 
on thee, how wouldst thou have felt, amidst in- 
conceivable torment, that thy thoughtlessness 
alone was the cause, that instead of those dread- 
ful tortures, thou didst not enjoy eternal hap- 
piness, happiness which I should in vain at- 
tempt to describe! Now — now it is yet time, 
Aristus! Perhaps to-morrow's fight may send 
thee, with ten thousand other thoughtless 
wretches, to perdition! O turn thee; thou al- 
ready knowest enough to turn, and much thou 
needest not know. Feel only that thou art a 
sinner, and that he, Jesus of Nazareth, a name 
so many of thy brethren in vain endeavour to 
debase; He, the God whom I now worship, is 
thine Atoner, thy Redeemer! How calmly 
mayest thou march to battle, if thou but feel 
this rightly! How glorious, (even amongst an- 
gels this is glory,) how glorious to die, when 
thou diest to defend thy country, to save thy 
fellow citizens! How far below this, how mean 
was the death I died! Even now I should feel 
ashamed of the disgrace of a duel, if God had 
riot forgiven my sin. O Aristus, for a single 



144 
word I died in blood; and my friend was niy 
barbarous murderer! As thoughtlessly as we 
had lived, so went we forth to death. The laws 
of our station enjoined it. Laws never given, 
even by man, imaginary laws, ye we obeyed; 
and those for ever engraven on our hearts, those 
so plainly revealed, the acknowledged laws of 
God, the Creator, the Lord of man — those we 
despised, against those we rebelled; and (O 
amazing folly!) without knowing, without wish- 
ing to know them. That work of fancy, honour, 
alone is revered by most men in our station; 
that alone they make their idol. The true ho- 
nour of obeying God, and being immortal, they 
know not. Alas, they never concern themselves 
to. know it. We went and did our dreadful 
work. We had spoken a few unthinking words, 
(Oh, if God punished as we punish, we had 
been long since condemned,) we had said a few 
unthinking words, and this must be avenged 
with blood, with death! While yet we knew 
nothing higher than this life, we loved each 
other, and we must kill each other! We felt 
obscure forebodings of what death might be to 
us, but this life must be served. Now we al- 
ready stood in blood; each sought the other's 
life; he must do so to save his own. Unhappy 



145 
thought for souls that depend on this life only; 
and far more unhappy, if they know the dread- 
ful consequences of such thoughtlessness. — I 
fell. Thou didst feel some emotion at the fate 
of thy friend; but like all thy emotions, it was 
transitory. Thy soul does ever tear itself from 
serious thought. Observing that I was not dead, 
compassion bid thee bring me to the nearest 
house, and commend me to the care of a sur- 
geon, and then thou didst fly for safety. Chance, 
as you call it — we call it here the eternal pro- 
vidence of God — had led me to a christian 
woman's house. She was so happy as to serve 
her God in peace and tranquillity, within the 
limits of her sex, and now her old age was 
crowned by the saving of a soul. O how I shall 
thank her, when she comes to us! She sat 
down by me, and began to talk of eternity; a 
sound that waked my soul from the sleep in 
which she had hitherto been sunk; dreadful 
waking, which awaked her to despair! Now I 
felt the full weight of my want of thought, the 
extent of its guilt, and of its punishment. I felt 
myself condemned. I had lost the power of 
speech, but still my grief could rage. She saw 
it, but she ventured not to combat my despair. 

N 



146 
She sent to the worthy pastor of the village, a 
man despised by Aristus. He came — and O, 
may God reward him! — he led me up to my 
Redeemer. Long indeed had I still to combat 
with despair; for he did not make my sin appear 
light, but he showed me the means of obtaining 
pardon. I seized it, and was saved, in the last 
breath of my existence saved, and now I am 
happy. He has pardoned, the Eternally Merci- 
ful! But had I died a few hours sooner, I had 
now been lost. And what wilt thou be to-mor- 
row, if, this day, thou dost not repent? Behold 
the hosts are prepared for the contest. The 
Lord has spoken in his anger, nations shall slay 
each other. To-morrow the noise of the battle 
will leave thee no time to collect thy soul. Do 
it — O do it to-day, if thou regard thy eternal 
salvation; and let this be thy first repentant re- 
solution, that on thy own account, thou never 
again wilt slay thy brother. Be great enough, 
before men and angels, be great enough to say, 
when another demands thy blood, " No, I will 
never give it; I dare not; my God forbids; I 
will not do what God forbids. I will use my 
life to honour Him, and serve my neighbour." 
Fear not that he will take thy life without re- 
sistance. If he be base enough to do so, let him 



147 
take it. What is the loss of life to an immortal, 
a redeemed soul? Prepare thyself for death, but 
seek it not; he cannot rob thee of the joys of 
heaven. Dost thou fear the loss of temporal 
advantages? Lose them, and gain eternal ones. 
Sacrifice thy profession, if thy brethren be mad 
enough to force thee to it. Degrade thyself in 
the e} r es of the world, and be exalted before 
God. O my Aristus, how trifling appear all 
worldly advantages, when we stand above the 
world! One day we shall all be forced to render 
an account, an account of our unthinking lives, 
an account that we respected a received opinion 
more than the clear law of God; that we stifled 
all the feelings of our souls, and madly plunged 
ourselves in death, of which the dread was not 
in vain implanted in our nature. O Aristus, 
repent! Thy redeemed friend intreats thee. Be 
saved, like him! 



148 



LETTER VII. 

My beloved Cidli,* 

The hour was come, that hour by thee so 
dreaded, yet for which thou hadst been so long 
prepared; the hour was come, that took me 
from thee — from your world — for ever; but 
how short is the for ever of your world! The 
first violence of thy grief is now assuaged; as- 
suaged by religion alone. So long I waited be- 
fore I wrote to thee, thou best beloved! How 
affectionate was thy wish that thou mightest be 
the deserted one! Now is that wish fulfilled; 
but hast thou strength for the trial? O pray to 
God, devoutly pray, for strength! Thou art 
weak, and yet I blame thee not. It is so short 
a time since I was in the earthly body, that I 
know full well how hard it is to soar to the 
higher virtues. This is exalted virtue, to bear 
the cross as the Almighty wills! I know my 
Cidli murmurs not; I see thee bear thy cross 

* Cidli is the name given to Jairus's daughter in a beautiful 
episode in the Messiah. By this name Klopstock had been ac- 
customed to distinguish his Meta, in such of his poems as were 
addressed to her. She wrote this and the following letter on the 
supposition that her husband was dead, and probably in conse- 
quence of a conversation in which she expressed a wish that she 
might be the survivor. 



149 
with resignation; but, my Cidli, thou art too 
much dejected. The grief, the melancholy that 
dwell so deeply in thy heart, thou seekest not 
to restrain, but rather feedest them to the ut- 
most. To weep is now thy comfort, and thou 
thinkest that thou hast done enough if thou dost 
weep in silence. But that is not enough. Thou 
must wipe away thy tears, and tear thyself from 
solitude. Thou must take an interest in all 
creation, and in the whole human race. Whilst 
thou art in the world, the duty of being useful 
never ceases, and thou canst be useful, my 
Cidli. Though I am dead, and God no longer 
gives us the blessing of connubial life, the 
greatest happiness on earth, — though he has left 
us childless, — think not that thy connexion with 
the world has ceased. Go seek out children, 
seek out friends! Let all whom thou canst teach 
to love the Eternal, be thy friends, be thy chil- 
dren. I know, my Cidli, that on reading this, 
thou wilt tear thyself from thy grief; thou who 
dost so earnestly endeavour to do thy duty; and 
for this reason I am permitted to use this means 
indulged to so few. O my Cidli, how 1 have 
loved thee! How did my soul hang on thy soul! 
and how well didst thou deserve it! Such love 
as ours was pleasing to the Almighty; bee: 

n 2 



156 
we forgot not Him; because we thanked Him 
that we had found each other, and worshipped 
Him together! 

O my only love, how often have I seen thee 
raise thine eyes to Heaven, with all the full de- 
votion of thy heart! How did I then thank God 
for giving me this soul, so certainly appointed 
to be blessed! Go, Cidli, teach it to the world; 
to those who do not believe it possible at once 
to love and pray, teach that pure love, which 
itself is virtue, and pleasing to God. But, Cidli, 
what was this to the love which I now feel? I 
love thee so, that even in heaven my heart longs 
for thee. O when thou once art here, with me 
to worship, to worship here — face to face! A 
holy awe now seizes me: O Cidli, who can speak 
of the joys of Heaven? How wilt thou then feel? 
Thou shalt come to us, my chosen one. Fear 
not on account of the sins which now disturb 
thy peace. I will not call them trifling. What 
we term failings, are, before the Holy One, 
great crimes. But the love with which He par- 
dons is unspeakable. The angel, who, invisible 
to thee, brings this, will still watch over thee; 
he will make thy heart continually more perfect. 
He was our angel on earth, for we were so 
united that we had but one angel. 



151 



LETTER VIII. 

THE ANSWER. 

Yes, I will write, though I am ignorant whe- 
ther thou knowest what I say. How little do 
we narrowminded creatures know of you! Per- 
haps the same who brought thy letter, my an- 
gel, (ah, he once was ours!) perhaps he can 
take this to thee; or at least, can tell thee some 
of its contents. Perhaps, . . . O how soothing is 
the thought! . . . perhaps thou thyself mavst still 
be near me, though invisible, and some day 
read it. Perhaps thou dost read it now; now 
as I write! O if thou dost hover round me, 
thou .... how shall 1 now address thee? If thou 
still dost hover round me, thou blessed one, 
have pity on me. Thou wilt find me weak; but 
I will, I will do what thou requirest of me. 
Thou dost justly require what God requires. 
Alas, 1 knew that God required it, yet I did it 
not, till awakened by thee! But I will in- 
deed awake. I will tear myself from grief. I 
will live for the world in which I am; I will 
do what duty requires; I will no longer sleep. 

O that my remaining time, time 

now so blank and dead to me, O that it 
might be short! Forgive, thou ever merciful, 



,152 
forgive the hasty wish! Not as I will, but as 
thou wilt! Wert thou yet with me, my >only 
love, wert thou, in thy earthly body, yet with 

me to support my weakness! So should 

every man support the companion of his life, 
and how amiably didst thou perform this duty! 
I may remind thee how willingly I followed. 
To obey thee was my pride. What woman 
would not have obeyed thee, thou excellent, 
thou upright man, thou christian! But I have 
thee now no longer . . . thy encouragement, thy 
example, thy assistance. I am desolate! My 
wish is heard; the wish of my tenderness, when 
in its utmost purity, it rose to the greatest 
height: thou art gone before me. Till now I 
knew not what I asked, but even now I thank 
Him who heard my prayer: I thank Him 

that thou hast not to suffer what I suffer 

Thou didst grieve, yes, my best beloved, 
amidst the agonies of death, amidst the fore- 
taste of thy bliss, I saw thy grief for thy de- 
serted Cidli. How can I support the thought! 
Yet never, never can I drive the image from 
my soul, from before my eyes. Thy closing 
eye, thy failing voice, thy trembling, cold, and 
dewy hand, which yet pressed mine when thou 
couldst speak no more. Now it grew weak the 



153 

gentle pressure, O yet I feel it! and now yet 
weaker; and now .... it was stiff! I cannot, I 
cannot support the recollection. But thy last 
blessing, that shall comfort me, . . . thy parting 
benediction! "Come quickly after me!" How 
fervently did I ask it with thee, thou already 
blessed; and how incessantly do I now repeat 
the prayer. But thou wert dead; I had thee now 
no more, and now no more thy body over which 
I hung continually, when the heavenly soul had 
left it: now, not even that; I am now alone. How 
can I support it, I who never could endure the 
absence of a single day from thee! I have no 
son whom I might teach to be like his father; 
no daughter who might weep with her mother! 
I am alone, and desolate! 

O thou, my heavenly friend, if thou still have 
any influence on me, let it work in me for good, 
and make me mild, resigned, willing to do what 
duty requires; let it make me worthy of thy 
love! Thou whom my soul loves, thou who still 
lovest me, how shall I now think of thee? How 
can I raise my feelings to the glory, the purity, 
that suits a blessed spirit. How great the dif- 
ference between thee and me! Far greater than 
on earth; where not the weakness of my sex 
alone, but thy all-exalted mind, and vet more, 



154 
thy all-exalted heart, made the distance so wide 
between us. But take my weakness on thee, as 
thou didst on earth; be thou my guide, my 
guardian angel; thou who with unwearied earn- 
estness didst perform every duty of rectitude 
and Christianity; teach me, help me, to fulfil 
my duties, and fetch me, O soon fetch me af- 
ter thee! 

O thou Almighty, send me the soul of my 
departed friend, or give me, I implore Thee, 
by some other means, thy grace! Lead me, now 
I am alone, in thy hand, through the world, to 
me become so rough, so pathless, and so hard 
to pass through! I will be easily led. But I in- 
treat Thee, with all resignation, with all sub- 
mission to thy will, let me soon follow him! 
Let me soon come to thy blessed, to my be- 
loved, to Thee! 



155 
DIALOGUE ON FAME.* 

A FRAGMENT. 

I once told my Meta, that I thought a dia- 
logue, if written by one or two friends, would 
appear most natural. We also wished to do 
this for the sake of leaving a memorial to the 
last of us who should remain, and to our friends. 
This unfinished trifle was the consequence of 
this fancy. I earnestly wish that I could recol- 
lect some of her serious conversations with me, 
so as to write them down; for what a heart had 
she, and what a quick, and at the same time 
accurate understanding! 

Meta. Do you consider the immortality of 
fame as a chimera of pride? Or is the attain- 
ment of it worthy the endeavours of a sensible 
upright man. 

Klopstock. I consider fame as a means to ac- 
quire friends even after our death. How sweet 
and how suitable is it to a sensible man to have 
friends, even then. 

Meta. Yet many of those who are become 

* "That lasting fame and perpetuity of praise, which Gob 
" and good men have consented shall be the reward of those 
"whose published labours advance the good of mankind." 

Milton's Areopugitica. 



156 
immortal, have ridiculed the endeavour to be- 
come so. And besides, how cold, in general, 
are those friends after death! 

Klopstock. Often do people ridicule what 
they wish and seriously endeavour to obtain; 
either because they despair of obtaining it, or 
because they know how much their endeavour 
is blamed, when its object is too plainly disco 
vered. Their ridicule is therefore not sincere. 
They are either attempting to conceal their 
aim from others, or they are unwilling to ac- 
knowledge to themselves their secret wish. He 
who deserves immortality will never be a cold 
friend to one who is already immortal. 

Meta. A few warm friends are better than a 
great many cold ones. . . . But as to the first 
part of your answer, I cannot be convinced that 
all these great men dissembled in this point. 
They considered glory as something so little, 
that the attainment of even its highest step, 
immortality, appeared scarcely worthy to be 
wished. 

Klopstock. If they really considered immor- 
tality as so little a thing, they certainly never 
thought of their usefulness; they never con- 
sidered how much it connects us with pos- 
terity. I hold true glory to be as congenial to 



157 

the simplicity of nature, as I think vanity is 
opposite to it. 

Meta. I grant that the desire of true glory is 
congenial to our nature. I grant, further, that 
great actions, and good writings, if contempla- 
ted and read by the whole world, are useful to 
a wide extent. But these actions should be per- 
formed, these works should be written, without 
the intention of thereby gaining immortality. 
The love of fame is too enticing a seducer. It 
leads us imperceptibly to consider glory not 
as a means of being useful, but as an end, in 
itself worthy to be attained; and thus, though 
our undertakings lose not their usefulness, it 
robs us of our moral worth, by changing our 
intention in them. 

Klopstock. Usefulness should undoubtedly 
be the first object in our undertakings. How,, 
worthless is the immortality of those who have 
obtained it without being useful! I do not be- 
lieve that true glory will ever seduce us to con- 
sider her as our chief object. She is always too 
much connected with our duty, and with use- 
fulness. But if we be useful, why should we 
not rejoice to gain, at the same time, this pure, 
this innocent glory? 

o 



158 

Meta. I should be too rigid, did I wish to 
forbid all joy in the prospect of immortal fame, 
but to indulge it very seldom, and with great 
moderation, is not too severe advice. It is so' 
easy to mistake the means for the end. 

Klopstock. What I have hitherto called the 
love of glory, is in particular the wish to be 
loved and valued by posterity, as we wish to 
be by our contemporaries; or, as I said at first, 
it is a wish to collect friends. This wish will 
not easily lead us to any thing but the frequent 
and varied ideas of the use we may be of to 
those friends. How many does Young rouse 
from the slumber of thoughtlessness or indif- 
ference! And those who are no longer thought- 
less or indifferent, how does he animate their 
feelings! How raise them to his own! How 
does he teach them to worship God, to be chris- 
tians! And the prospect, the foretaste of all this 
— shall it not be allowed? Is it not high and 
heavenly joy? 



159 



}Ir. KLOPSTOCK, in continuation. 

I have frequently debated with myself whe- 
ther I should attempt to describe my Meta's 
character. I am bound not only to the public, 
but to her, to avoid every appearance of exag- 
geration, and how few are there whose hearts 
will justify them in believing that what I must 
say is not beyond the truth! To those few, I 
can with one stroke give a general idea of her 
character. She was formed to say with Arria, 
" Paetus, it is not painful." But these are the 
readers who would wish to know the particu- 
lar features of such a character. They will find 
some of them in the following fragments of let- 
ters written since our marriage. We had never 
been separated, except for two months, during 
which those letters were written. She lived 
only two months more after my return. Since 
I write this sketch chiefly to speak of her death, 
it appears to me essential to make known some- 
thing of what passed in our minds during a 
separation which, both to me, and to her, was 
a preparation for it. 

But before I make the extracts, let me be 
permitted to say a little more of her. . . . About 



160 
three years ago she undertook to write my life, 
and this is her introduction to it. 

" All that concerns Klopstock, and all that 
he° does, is so important in my eyes, that I can 
no longer resist the wish to preserve in writing 
what I observe in him, and what to me appears 
most worthy of observation. I intend to con- 
fine myself to what relates to his character, and 
whatever has any connexion with the Messiah; 
but loving him as I do, many little trifles which 
concern our mutual attachment, our marriage, 
and myself, will naturally intrude. I shall ob- 
serve no order of time, but shall write what my 
heart now feels, what I now remark, or what I 
have long since remarked, and of which I am 
now reminded." 

She says afterwards, ... <c As he knows that 
I delight to hear whatever he composes, he al- 
ways reads it to me immediately, though it be 
often only a few verses. He is so far from 
opinionated, that on this first reading I am to 
make my criticisms, just as they come into my 
head." 

How much do I lose in her even in this res- 
pect! How perfect was her taste, how exqui- 
sitely fine her feelings! She observed every 
thing, even to the slightest turn of the thought. 



161 
I had only to look at her, and could see in her 
face when even a syllable pleased or displeased 
her; and when I led her to explain the reason of 
her remarks, no demonstration could be more 
true, more accurate, or more appropriate to the 
subject. But in general this gave us very little 
trouble, for we understood each other when we 
had scarcely begun to explain our ideas. 

META TO KLOPSTOCK. 

Hamburg*, Aug. 2d, 1758. 

Did you go three times the distance to the 
post, only to see me for one minute more? Do 
not imagine I think this a small matter. It con- 
firms me in my old suspicion, that you have 
indeed a little love for me. If you could see me 
to-day, I know you would love me dearly. No 
one could know by my appearance that you 
had left me. The thought that grief might hurt 
our child, (for I have too severely felt the few 
tears which I could not restrain,) that it would 
displease you, and be ingratitude for our other- 
wise so great happiness, makes me so resigned 
that I am almost easy. I cannot indeed banish 
the thought of you, nor do I wish it; but I can 

view it in such a light that it does not disturb 

o 2 



162 
me. Our God is with you, and will restore you 
to the arms of your wife! 

August 3. 

I am well, and have continued a heroine; 
though I am obliged to be very watchful against 
my enemy, who lies in ambush, and shoots like 
a Hanoverian rifleman. In earnest, when I think 
I have the utmost command of myself, the 
thought of you often seizes me so suddenly, 
that it costs me much trouble to compose my- 
self again. The most trifling circumstances 
often occasion this. 

Now come, Eliza,* and write your certifi- 
cate. " I hereby certify upon my honour, that 
Meta Klopstock behaves so well as to astonish 
me continually, /would not be easy, . . . cer- 
tainly not, . . . though I had promised my hus- 
band a thousand times. I am half angry that 
she is so. It is too much love for a husband to 
be easy purely out of tenderness for him." 

They waked me this morning to give me 
your letter, and I got the head- ache; but that 
pain was pleasure. Yesterday evening I had 
some obscure notion of a letter, but could not 
imagine how it should come. I never thought 
of Schonburg; but you thought of it! You could 

* Mrs. Klopstock's sister, who was married to Mr. Schmidt. 



163 
not help writing; yes, that is natural, for you 
love me. / could not have helped writing 
neither. 

August 4. 

I wish the nights were not so dark. I have 
each night had a strong inclination to rise, and 
write to beg you would return; but do not sup- 
pose that I indulge this thought. . . . Yet if the 
wind has not changed, you might perhaps ar- 
rive on Monday, and see G — and return on 
Wednesday. Ah, then I should have you again 
for that short time! 

Yes, my dear Klopstock, God will give us 
what in his wisdom He sees good for us; and 
if any thing be wanting to our wishes, He will 
teach us to bear the want. 

August 7, my Father's dying day. 

Are you really gone? The wind was west 
this morning, but it is changed again to the east; 
our God be with thee! Believe me I trust in 
Him alone, and am convinced that the way by 
which He leads us is the best for us. 



164 



August 10.. 

Where are you now? Still in the ship, I fear, 
for you have had very unfavourable winds. May 
God have preserved you from thunder storms! 
They have been my greatest dread. We have 
had violent heat, but no thunder. Last night it 
was very very dark. I could not help being- 
anxious about you, but it was not such anxiety 
as would have been ingratitude for my great 
happiness; it was tenderness which I can never 
cease to feel. God be with you, and grant that 
I may hear from you on Tuesday; but even if 
it should not be so, I will not be so uneasy as 
to hurt my health. 

I was ready by eight o'clock. Oh, if you had 
come home! How J wished for you! It is hard, 
very hard, after having lived with you, to live 
without you! 



165 



August 15. 

God be praised! I have your letter. O what 
joy! What shall I feel when I have you again! 
I know not what I write. I received your letter 
at table. I could eat no more. The tears started 
from my eyes, and I went into my own room. 
I could only thank God with my tears; but He 
understands our tears! 



KLOPSTOCK TO META. 

Bernst, Aug. 16. 

My Meta, were both the nights so dark? 
They were indeed, but God preserved me 
from all the dangers which you feared. But now 
you have my letter, and you have already thank- 
ed our God that He has protected me. Let us 
together thank Him that you and our child are 
well. I know how you think of me. I know it 
by my own feelings. It often comes so strong- 
ly into my mind that you are with me, that I 
am ready to press you to my heart. My only 
love, what will be the joy of meeting! Depend 
on it, I shall return as soon as possible. 



166 



META TO KLOPSTOCK. 

August 24. 

I am getting through all my letters, all my 
visits, all my employments, agreeable or dis- 
agreeable, that when you come, I may live for 
you alone. 

Yet I will really, in earnest, gladly do with- 
out you till moonlight comes, though I tremble 
in every nerve when I think of seeing you again. 

I am, thank God, very well. I have nothing 
of the illness which I felt during the last week. 

FROM KLOPSTOCK. 

Copenhagen, Sept. 2. 

My beloved Meta, how sweet it is to receive 
such letters from you! My confidence that God 
will spare you to me yet remains; though I can- 
not say that now and then a cloud does not 
come over it. 

There are lighter and heavier hours of trial. 
These are some of the heaviest. Let us take 
care, my dear Meta, that we resign ourselves 
wholly to our God. This solemn thought often 
occupies me. What think you of writing on it 
to each other, to strengthen us? O how my 
heart hangs on thine! 



167 



TO KLOPSTOCK. 



September 7. 

I shall indeed be in continual misery, if Sep- 
tember passes without your return. I shall be 
always expecting to be confined, and to die 
without you. This would destroy all the peace 
of which I wish to tell you, for, Gob be praised, 
I am strong enough to speak of my death. I 
have omitted it hitherto only on your account; 
and I am happy that I need no longer refrain 
from it. Yet let me be as uneasy as I will, do 
nothing that may hurt your nealth. I ought not 
to have told you of my fears; but I find it as 
impossible in a letter, as when I am with you, 
to conceal any thing which presses on my heart. 
I have left no room to tell you of my peace and 
my courage, but I will do it another time. 



168 



KLOPSTOCK TO META. 

September 13. 

My poor little Meta, your letter yesterday* 
made me quite miserable. I know not how you 
could discover from my letter that I should be 
so long in coming. I feel with you the whole 
weight of absence; but do not torment yourself 
with the idea that you may die, and die without 
me. Neither is at all probable. You will per- 
haps think that I speak coldly on the subject; 
but this coldness of reason is necessary to us 
both, not only that we may not injure ourselves 
by giving way to gloomy fears, but also that we 
may be the better able to submit with perfect 
resignation to the will of our God. This perfect 
resignation is one of the most difficult, and at 
the same time most consoling duties of Chris- 
tianity. These days of our separation are days 
of trial, which call on us to recollect that we are 
tried. Even the most innocent and virtuous 
love should be subservient to the love of God. 
I have read again my " Ode on the Omnipo- 
tence of God," which I am printing in the 
Northern Spectator, and my ideas of the univer- 
sal presence of Him who alone deserves our 

* Her letter dated Sept. 7. 



169 
adoration became very strong. When Go d gives 
me grace to pursue these ideas, then, my Meta, 
I am not far from thee? He surrounds both thee 
and me. His hand is over us. God is where 
you are. God is where I am. We depend en* 
tirely on Him; much more entirely than is ge- 
nerally supposed. We depend on Him even in 
all those things which least call our thoughts 
towards Him. His presence preserves our 
breath. He has numbered the hairs of our head. 
My soul is now in a state of sweet composure, 
though mixed with some degree of sadness. O 
my wife, whom God has given to me, be not 
careful — be not careful for the morrow! 



META TO KLOPSTOCK. 

September 10. 

You must not think that I mean any 

thing more than that I am as willing to die as 
to live, and that I prepare myself for both, for 
I do not allow myself to look on either as a cer- 
tainty. Were I to judge from circumstances, 
there is much more probability of life than 
death. But I am perfectly resigned to either, 
God's will be done! I often wonder at the in- 

p 



170 
difference- I feel on the subject, when I am so 
happy in this world.* O what is our religion! 
What must that eternal state be, of which we 
know so little, while our soul feels so much! 
More than a 5 life with Klopstock! It does not 
now appear to me so hard to leave you and our 
child, and I only fear that I may lose this peace 
of mind again, though it has already lasted eight 
months. I well know that all hours are not alike, 
and particularly the last, since death in my si- 
tuation must be far from an easy death: but let 
the last hour make no impression on you. You 
know too well how much the body then presses 
down the soul. — Let God give what he will, I 
shall still be happy. A longer life with you, or 
eternal life with Him! But can you as easily 
part from me, as I from you? You are to remain 
in this world, in a world without me! You know 
I have always wished to be the survivor, be- 
cause I well know it is the hardest to endure; 
but perhaps it is the will of God that you should 
be left, and perhaps you have most strength. 
— O think where I am going; and as far as sin- 

* She was very grateful for this happiness, but it did not at all 
diminish her desire of a better world. In the last of her confes- 
sions, which she always tised to write, she prays, " May God 
continue to me the readiness which He has given me to exchange 
a life full of happiness for a still happier eternity." 



171 
ners can judge of each other, you may be cer- 
tain that I go there, (the humble hopes of a 
christian cannot deceive,) and there you will 
follow me: there shall we be for ever united by 
love, which assuredly was not made to cease. 
So also shall we love our child. At first perhaps 
the sight of the child may add to your distress, 
but it must afterwards be a great comfort to you 
to have a child of mine. I would wish it to sur- 
vive me, though I know that most people would 
be of a different opinion. Why should I think 
otherwise? Do I not intrust it to you and to 
God? It is with the sweetest composure that I 
speak of this, yet I will say no more, for per- 
haps it may affect you too much, though you 
have given me leave to speak of it. How I thank 
you for that kind permission! My heart ear- 
nestly wished it, but on your account I would 
not indulge the wish. I have done. I can write 
of nothing else. I am perhaps too serious, but 
it is a seriousness mixed with tears of joy. 






172 



September 15. 

I hope, yet tremble, for your letter to-day. O 
take not away my hope! Set off to-morrow. We 
have had since yesterday the finest weather, 
and the best north-east wind. You will come 
exactly with the full moon. O set off! Do not 
rob me of my hope. Make me not so unhappy. 
Let this be the last letter. O come! 



FROM KLOPSTOCK. 

Bernst, September 16. 

Your letter to-day, my sweet wife, has very 
much distressed me.* But before I say any 
thing of it, I must speak of my journey. This 
letter has agitated me so much that I cannot 
answer it to-day. It has made me not serious 
only, but dejected. May our God do with us 
according to his will. He is the all-wise, and the 
all- gracious! 

I cannot conceal from you that my absence 
at this time lies particularly heavy on my heart; 
yet I must also tell you that there are very 
bright hours to me, when, though the thought 

* Her Letter, dated September 10. 



173 

of absence fills my mind, I have strength to re- 
flect with composure that these are the hours 
of trial, and that it is here I must submit. All 
you say in your letter affects me too much to- 
day: otherwise I would gladly speak of it with 
you. The thought of your death affects me too 
deeply; that of absence makes me, for the rea- 
son I have mentioned, cheerful. — I will tell you 
how I feel a passage in my favourite 139th 
Pslam. " If I take the wings of the morning, 
and remain in the uttermost part of the sea, 
even there also shall thy hand hold me." Be- 
yond the uttermost sea, there art thou, my love, 
and there too is our God, and there does his 
hand hold thee. It is a very pleasing thought! 
This I promise you, I will not stay one moment 
from you without absolute necessity; and then 
when God has given us our child, and when 
the dear mother and her babe are with me, — I 
turn giddy when I think of it. — I must con- 
clude. My whole heart is entirely, unspeakably 
yours. 



p 2 



174 



META TO KLOPSTOCK. 

September 18. 

Your thoughtlessness could not have played 
me a worse trick than to send to Soroe the let- 
ter in which I hoped for certain information re- 
specting your journey. I know not how I shall 
feel when I see you again. When I think of it 
I am agitated as when I think of hearing the 
first voice of my child! Yesterday I went an 
airing for four hours. I could go no other way 
than the road to Lubeck, though I well knew 
you could not come so soon. It was not possi- 
ble for me to drive any other way. Adieu till 
to-morrow. O may the letter to-morrow tell 
me that you have set off, —-that I have written 
this letter in vain. O my only beloved, come, 
eome, come! 



175 



KLOPSTOCK TO MET A. 



Bernst, Sept. 19. 

my Meta! you say " make me not so un- 
happy, but come."* How much that affects 
me! But the captain does not sail till Thursday, 
as he says, and I do not believe he will sail 
then. He has not yet got lading enough. Let 
us yet endure this little time, my only love! 
My whole soul longs to see you again, but I 
must not write of this at present; it affects me 
too much, and I wish to repress this emotion, 
because I wish to wait with composure and 
submission for the day of joy. Do the same, 
my Meta! My hope that God would spare you 
to me, was yesterday very strong. It became 
particularly so from the good account of your 
health. But I scarcely dare indulge this thought, 
it affects me too powerfully. Our God will or- 
der all things according to his wisdom and love. 
O what true and peaceful happiness lies in that 
thought, when we give ourselves entirely to it. 

1 return to you for one moment only to say 
how much I love you, and how tenderly I in- 
treat you to feel my absence as little as possi- 

ee her letter, Sept. 15. 



176 

ble. Compare the time when I left you, not 
knowing when I should return;* when I did not 
return till after so long an absence; and now 
that I must be only a short time absent from 
you, that my return is so near at hand, that I 
am only detained a little time by the captain of 
the vessel, that we have so much reason to 
hope that God will bless thee with a healthy 
child, and me with the child and thee! Let us 
reflect on this happiness, and be grateful to the 
Giver. This reflection makes me quite cheer- 
ful. I press you to my heart, my Meta. 

» Copenhagen, Sept. 23. 

At length, my Meta, I am in town to go on 
board. I expect every moment to be called. 
Our God will conduct me. O how I love you, 
and how I rejoice in the thought of our meeting! 

Lubeck, Sept. 26. 

I shall soon be in your arms, my only love. 
God be praised for my prosperous voyage! 
How I rejoice that I shall see you at last! My 
Meta, how shall w 7 e thank our God for having 
preserved thee to me, and me to thee! 

* In the year 1752. 



177 



TO KLOPSTOCK. 

September 26. 

I must indulge my fancy, and write you at 
Lubeck, to Copenhagen no more, . . . now no 
more. God will be with you. I have prayed for 
you with my firmest faith. I received your let- 
ter just as I was beginning to be quite dejected. 

I have not time to write much. I should now 

i 

drive every day to Wandsbeck to meet you, if 
I had not for some days had a cold in my head 
and eyes. This will make me not look so cheer- 
ful as I should have done if you had arrived 
last week; but otherwise I am perfectly well. 



This was her last letter to me. She died on 
the 28th of Nov. 1758. I once thought of wri- 
ting, from what I and my friends in this place 
can recollect of her last hours, a description of 
her agonizing, yet happy death; but I could 
not have gone through with it; at least I should 
have suffered too much. What have I not al- 
ready suffered in performing my resolution 
of supplying this description, by extracts from 
the letters of my friends! I rejoice that it is 
thus more than replaced. What do we not owe 



178 
to friendship, especially in the great afflictions 
of life! 

I should not satisfy my own feelings, if on 
this unsought occasion I forbore to mention 
that besides my old friends, I have here found 
others, particularly since the death of my wife, 
who have really sympathised in my fate. I have 
often when I thought I was only with strangers, 
found myself amongst friends. I have made 
this pleasing discovery rather from their silence, 
from a certain manner which I observed in 
them, than from what was said of my loss. In 
short, I must say that much friendly treatment 
makes my residence in the native town of my 
beloved wife never to be forgotten by me. 



179 



LETTERS 



WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF MRS. 
KLOPSTOCK. 

FORM ELIZABETH SCHMIDT, THE YOUNGEST SISTER OF 

MRS. KLOPSTOCK. 

Hamburg-,- Dec. 4. 

YOU have already received the sad account 
of the death of my beloved sister. She died as 
she had lived, with firm courage. She took 
leave of her husband. I prayed with her, and 
she departed in the gentlest manner. I closed 
her eves. I can write no more. Thank God, 
with me, for the extraordinary strength, which 
He bestowed upon me in that dreadful hour; it 
surpassed all my natural powers, as my expe- 
rience fully convinces me. Thank God also for 
the strength, peace, and consolation, which He 
vouchsafes to Klopstock. I trust he will be as- 
sisted to surmount this heavy affliction. 



180 



FROM HABTMAN RAHN* TO SCHMIDT. 

Lubeck, Dec. 4. 

The wise adorable Father in heaven has call- 
ed to himself his virtuous child. O thou great 
Object of our adoration! grant that we may die 
the death of this excellent person, ... a pious, 
tranquil, holy death! My poor wife is inconsol- 
able, and I must comfort her and myself; but I 
am not the christian hero that you are. I praise 
the Almighty, that He has so powerfully sup- 
ported you in this dreadful hour. It is your 
duty to assist me in persuading Klopstock to 
come to us. Must not every moment passed in 
Hamburg renew his sufferings and inward an- 
guish? And is not a calm silent anguish, like 
his, more injurious to the health than that which 
is louder and more vehement? 

* He was married to a sister of Klopstock. 



181 



FROM JOHANNA VICTORIA RAHN, KLOPSTOCK'S 
SISTER, TO ELIZABETH SCHMIDT. 

Lubeck, Dec. 4. 

My dear Eliza, how much have you all suf- 
fered, and with what constancy have you en- 
dured it! May God preserve your health! 
What I have lost, my beloved Eliza, I can find 
no language to express. I loved her more than 
if she had been my own sister. But it was the 
will of God that thus it should be! 



1 ROM CRAMER* TO KLOPSTOCK. 

Copenhagen, Dec. 5. 

I am indeed inexpressibly affected by the 
totally unexpected intelligence, which has cost 
me and my dearest wife so many tears. What 
should we be, with all our joys, and all our 
hopes, if eternity did not console us, and give 
us an assurance that we shall receive our de- 
parted friends again, more glorious and more 
perfect. Yes, my dear friend, God's consola- 
tions are the only true consolations. This your 
glorified Meta, our most beloved friend, felt 
amidst all her sufferings. This exalted her soul 

* Chancellor of the University of Kiel, and chaplain to the 
king. One of Klopstock's earliest and most highly esteemed 
friends. 



182 
above this world at its entrance into her eternal 
rest; and this will also wipe all tears from your 
eyes. I rejoice, though my joy is mingled with 
sadness, in the mercy which God has shown 
towards you both. May God support you un- 
der the sense of your affliction, and make you, 
through his power, an example of that true sen- 
sibility, which you so often describe in your 
poetical compositions as attendant on virtue. 
You will probably quit Hamburg soon. All 
your friends wish you to do so. May God pre- 
serve your health, and console, relieve, and 
bless you through the power of religion. My 
wife desires me again to assure you, that she 
takes the warmest and tenderest part in your 
sorrows. 

Once more, God bless yon, and restore you 
to ease, comfort, and joy, with all those who 
share your affliction. 



183 



FROM FUNKE TO KLOPSTOCK. 

Copenhagen, Dec. 5. 

What can I write? I will not make the past 
event my subject; for you must know how deep- 
ly I sympathize.with you. Yet what can my grief 
be in comparison of yours? O, could I but be 
at ease on your account, . . . but I am all anxi- 
ety. My heart wavers between two objects: 
sometimes it turns to her who is gone, some- 
times to you; but on you it rests, for she is 
above our care. Could I in the slightest degree 
alleviate your sorrow, I should in so doing 
fulfil the wish of an angel. Dearest friend, will 
you not come to us? Remain not, I entreat you, 
in a place where every thing around reminds 
you of that which is already too deeply engra- 
ven on your heart. May God give you peace! 
May He strengthen and bless you! 

I wish it were possible that I could render 
myself in any manner useful to you; for who 
reveres, who loves, more sincerely than I do, 
the poet of the Messiah, the christian, the friend, 
the beloved of our departed angel? 



184 



KLOPSTOCK TO CRAMER. 



Hamburg, Dec. 5. 

This is my Meta's dying day, *and yet I am 
composed. Can I ascribe this to myself, my 
Cramer? Certainly not. I sleep very little, at 
other times I cannot do without sleep; and yet 
I am not ill, . . . often well. Thanks be to the 
God of comfort for all the favour He has shown 
me! Thank our God, with me, my Cramer. 

I will now try to give you a more circum- 
stantial account. Her sufferings continued from 
Friday till Tuesday afternoon, about four 
o'clock; but they were the most violent from 
Monday evening about eight. On Sunday 
morning I supported first myself, and then her, 
by repeating that without our Father's will not 
a hair in her head could fall; and more than 
once I repeated to her the following lines from 
my last ode. One time 1 was so much affected 
as to be forced to stop at every line. I was to 
have repeated it all to her, but we were inter- 
rupted. 

* A week after her death,. 



185 

" Though unseen by human eye, 
" My Redeemer's hand is nigh; 
" He has pour'd salvation's light 
" Far within the vale of night; 
" There will God my steps controul, 
" There his presence bless my soul. 
"Lord, whate'er my sorrows be, 
" Teach me to look up to Thee!" 

Some affecting circumstances I must omit; I 
will tell you them some other time. 

When I began to fear for her life, (and I did 
this sooner than any one else,) I from time to 
time whispered something in her ear concern- 
ing God, but so as not to let her perceive my 
apprehensions. I know little -of what I said; 
only in general I know that I repeated to her 
how much I was strengthened by the uncom- 
mon fortitude graciously vouchsafed to her; 
and that I now reminded her of that to which 
we had so often encouraged each other — per- 
fect resignation. When she had already suffered 
greatly, I said to her with much emotion, 
" The Most Merciful is with thee." I saw how 
she felt it. Perhaps she now first guessed that 
I thought she would die. 1 saw this in her 
countenance. I afterwards often told her (as of- 
ten as I could go into the room, and support 
the sight of her sufferings) how visibly the 

12 



186 
grace of God was with her. How could I re- 
frain from speaking of the great comfort of my 
soul! 

I came in just as she had been bled. A light 
having been brought near on that account, I 
saw her face clearly for the first time after many 
hours. Ah, my Cramer, the hue of death was 
on it! But that God who was so mightily with 
her, supported me too at the sight. She was 
better after the bleeding but was soon worse 
again. I was allowed but very little time to 
take leave of her. I had some hopes that I 
might return to pray with her. I shall never 
cease to thank God for the grace He gave me 
at this-, parting. I said, " I will fulfil my pro- 
mise, my Meta, and tell you that your life, from 
extreme weakness, is in danger." You must 
not expect me to relate every thing to you. I 
cannot recollect the whole. She heard perfect- 
ly, and spoke without the smallest difficulty. I 
pronounced over the name of the Father, the 
Son, and the Holy Ghost. u Now the will of 
Him who inexpressibly supports thee, — his 
will be done!" " Let him do according to his 
will," said she; " He will do welly She said 
this in a most expressive tone of joy and con- 
fidence. "You have endured like an angel. 



187 
God has been with you. He will be with you. 
His mighty name be praised! The most Mer- 
ciful will support you! Were I so wretched as 
not to be a christian, I should now become 
one." Something of this sort, and yet more, I 
said to her, in a strong emotion of transport. 
Eliza says we were both full of joy. ... u Be 
my guardian angel, if our God permit." " You 
have been mine," said she. " Be my guardian 
angel," repeated I, " if our God permit.'' 
" Who would not be so?" said she. I would 
have hastened away. Eliza said, " Give her 
your hand once more." I did so, and know not 
whether I said any thing. I hasted away, — then 
went into my own room, and prayed. God 
gave me much strength in prayer; I asked for 
perfect resignation; — but how was it, my 
Cramer, that I did not pray for her, which 
would have been so natural? Probably because 
she was already heard above all that I could 
ask or think! 

When I was gone out, she again asked Eli- 
za whether it was likely she might die, and 
whether her death was so near? Once she told 
her that she felt nothing. Afterwards she felt 
some pain. She said to Eliza that God had 
much to forgive in her, but she trusted in her 



183 
Redeemer. On another occasion Eliza said to 
her that God would help her; she answered, 
" into heaven.'' As her head sunk on the pillow, 
she said, with much animation, "It is over!" 
She then looked tenderly on Eliza, and with 
yet unfixed eyes listened while she thus prayed. 
"The blood of Jesus Christ cleanse thee 
from all sin." O sweet words of eternal life! 
After some expressions of pain in her counte- 
nance, it became again perfectly serene, — and 
thus she died! 

I will not complain, my Cramer; I will be 
thankful that in so severe a trial God has so 
strengthened me. 

At parting she said to me very sweetly, 
" Thou wilt follow me!" May my end be like 
thine! O might I now, for one moment, weep 
on her bosom! For I cannot refrain from tears, 
nor does God require it of me. 



189 



GIESECKE* TO KLOPSTOCK. 



Quedlinburg, Dec. 6. 

Though I have already frequently taken up 
the pen, and laid it down again, yet I once 

more resume it, to assure you, that my H 

and I weep with you, and pray for you. Who 
amongst all your friends is better qualified to 
pity you than I am? Who has known her longer, 
who was better acquainted with her? What a 
friend have I myself lost in her? 

I know but too well what you must suffer. I 
feel in all its dreadful force this sudden separa- 
tion from your departed saint, after having been 
blest for so short a time with her society; and 
the annihilation of the best, the noblest, and the 
most rational hopes of happiness on earth. And 
although I know that this separation will not be 
for ever, and that your hopes are not all anni- 
hilated, yet I tremble for the conflict which you 
must at present endure. Yours is a heavy trial; 
but, my dear friend, God, who lays it upon you, 

will not leave you without support. A has 

given me the great pleasure by assurance that 
God has already begun to glorify Himself in 

* One of Klopstock's academical friends, and much beloved 
by him. 



190 
you; for you have said, " She is not far from 
me." Indeed to a christian the distance is not 
great between earth and heaven. May God con- 
firm in you the consolation arising from this 
important truth! And now, my dear Klopstock, 
exert all your strength, and consider that you 
owe an example to your friends, and to your 
readers. Lament the loss of your Meta, with all 
the tenderness which she deserves: we lament 
it with you; but we intreat you not to yield too 
much to your affliction, reasonable as it is, 
Consider your important vocation. Consider 
your friends, your mother, your sisters. Your 
dear mother will write herself; you may easily 
imagine what she suffers; but it will be a great 
relief to her mind, to know that you are not en- 
tirely depressed by your affliction. 



191 



ELIZABETH SCHMIDT TO GIESECKE. 

Hamburg, Dec. 6. 

How much pleasure would your letter and 
your sweet ode* have given me, had 1 received 
them at another time. But now, I have scarcely 
been able to read the ode; it affects me too 
much. What I feel, you may easily imagine. 
What have I not lost! But I will not — I must 
not complain. Klopstock forbids me. I have now 
first learnt the full power of religion. But I will 
to-day write nothing but a circumstantial ac- 
count of our beloved friend's last hours. She 
endured her sufferings with fortitude and resig- 
nation seldom equalled. Klopstock, who had 
determined not to leave her, could not support 
it. He went out, and came in again all night 
long. About ten in the morning, from extreme 
fatigue no doubt, she had some faintings; but 
they lasted only a short time, and then she came 
to herself again. She was always patient. She 
smiled on Klopstock, kissed his hand, and 
spoke quite cheerfully. 

Now the trying scene began. Klopstock went 
in, and informed his wife that her life was in 
danger. She answered with perfect composure, 

* This gentleman was a much admired lyric poet. 






192 

" What our God wills is right!" They took 
leave of each other; but that I will not describe. 
Klopstock shall do it himself after a while. 
When he was ^gone, I went to the bed, and 
said, " I will stay with you." "God bless you 
for it, my Eliza," said she, and she looked at 
me with the calm serene smile of an angel. She 
then said to me, " Is my death then so near?" 
" I cannot pronounce that," I answered. " Yes 
— my husband has told me all that may happen. 
I know all." " I know too that you are prepared 
for all." " You will die tranquil and happy." 
" Oh, God must then forgive me much; but I 
think of my Redeemer, in whom I trust." 

At one time she said, " I do not feel much, 
Eliza; very little." " O that is well! God will 
soon help you." " Yes, to Heaven" said she. 
Now she was still, but appeared to feel pain. 
Soon after she laid her head back, and said, " It 
is over!" and at the same moment her face be- 
came so composed, that the change was obser- 
vable to every one. A moment before it ex- 
pressed nothing but pain, now nothing but 
peace. I began to pray, in short exclamations, 
such as she had taught me, and thus, after a 
few minutes, she died; — so soft, so still, so 
calm! 



193 

On Monday she was buried, with her son in 
her arms, in the same grave where three of my 
children now rest; for you do not yet know 
that, a week before, I lost my youngest little 
girl. Think what I, weak as I am, have lived 
through; but thank God with me, who so su- 
pernaturally strengthened me, that I was able, 
with courage and firmness not my own, to stand 
by our Meta in her last moments. 

Gor preserve you and those you love! God 
preserve Klopstock, to whom He now gives 
such uncommon grace and support. I can write 
no more. I wish you may be able to read this. 

STOCKIIAUSEN* TO KLOPSTOCK. 

Luneburg-, Dec. 9. 

Comfort — ah, who can comfort you? From 
the hand which has smitten you, can you alone 
expect it; and to a man, who, like you, has 
been accustomed to make the noblest feelings 
of religion his employment, I think this is al- 
ready a source of consolation. May God give 
it to you in the fullest measure; and pour the 
balm of heavenly peace into your wounded 
heart! Offer up all to Him, and you will receive 

* Rector of a public school. 
R 



194 
all from Him. After this separation, though a 
short one, from her you love (whom God will 
restore to you, and restore in glory,) your path 
must indeed appear more lonely, more rough 
and tedious; but what is it compared with that 
eternity, that blissful eternity, to which it leads? 
When the short dream of life is over, when the 
dismal phantoms vanish, at the brightness of 
the everlasting day, 

F* Then shall no fate again divide the souls 

k< Which, Nature, thou didst for each other form."f 

H. RAHN TO B. SCHMIDT. 

Lttbeck, Dec. 9. 

You must allow me, my dear Eliza, to make 
some remarks on your letter. That for some 
hours every day you talk with Klopstock of 
nothing but Meta, and try to recollect all her 
last words, looks, and actions, and in doing so 
are not melancholy, only tranquilly and sweetly 
sad, (these are your own words,) this I fear is 
food for his affliction, and food which, though 
sweet, will rather keep up than allay the emo- 
tions which deprive him of necessary rest. That 
God can wonderfully strengthen and support 

f From one of Klopstock's odes. 



195 
him,— Ah, my Eliza, how can I doubt? But, 
my dearest friend, is it the less our duty to use 
every possible human precaution to cut off all 
sustenance to his secret grief and pain? I am 
sure you will pardon me for venturing to name 
to you things which you know better than I do; 
because it is often, and particularly in such cir- 
cumstances, not quite useless to be reminded 
of what we well know. 

One thing more I must say; that I envy you 
for having been present at the death of our 
blessed sister. What may not be learnt from 
every death bed, and what must not you have 
learnt from such a death! God give a blessing 
to it in your soul, in time, and in eternity! 

CRAMER TO KLOPSTOCK. 

Copenhagen, Dec. 12. 

I thank you for the letter which I received 
from you by the last post. How much were we 
affected by the interesting account which it gave 
us of the sufferings of our sainted friend, of her 
fortitude, of the comfort which you afforded 
her, and of your own noble sensibility! Our 
tears again flowed. But in the midst of the me- 
lancholy interest which we take in your loss, 



196 
(might we not rather, in a religious sense, call 
it gain?) we feel much satisfaction in the proper 
and christian-like state of your mind. Thus is 
our God, the All-Merciful, ever at our right 
hand during the most awful trials. May He still 
continue with you! And we sincerely wish that 
He may strengthen and console you ever, more 
and more! In the mean time endeavour, first 
through gratitude to Him, and next through 
friendship for us, to take all possible care of 
your health, which is so precious to us. I must 
intreat you most earnestly, if it be in your 

power, to return with L . I repeat my wish. 

May God strengthen you, comfort you, and 
give you peace through the power of religion 
ever, more and more! I am, with the warmest 
friendship, entirely yours. 



197 



E. SCHMIDT TO KLOPSTOCK'S MOTHER. 

Hamburg, Dec. 12. 

God will and must comfort us all. He will 
comfort and support us with his grace, that we 
may be able to bear the heavy cross which He 
has laid on us, according to his will. 

Your chief anxiety must now be for your 
dear son; and I wish you could yourself see 
him. What a miracle does God exhibit in him. 
He presents an example to us all how power- 
fully God supports those who are his, even un- 
der the most trying circumstances. You will 
readily believe that we do our utmost to cheer 
and amuse our dear brother — but you could 
better imagine it, if you knew how much we 
all love your son. How I, in particular, respect 
and love him, I cannot express to you. I loved 
my blessed sister most tenderly, that is known 
to all who were acquainted with us; but I now 
feel that I do not love our Klopstock less than 
I loved her. You may hence conclude, that 
from my heart I shall do every thing that can 
in any degree contribute to soothe his grief. 
He will probably write to you himself, and tell 
you, that on account of his health, he does not 
intend to travel this winter, but will tvait till 
spring. 

it 2 



198 
The night before her death I was alone with 
her. She suffered much, but with great com- 
posure. She talked a good deal to me. O happy 
hours which God gave me with her, even then 
though deeply tinged with sorrow! Amongst 
other things she said, " O Eliza, how should I 
now feel, if I had not employed the whole nine 
months in preparing for my death! Now my 
pains will not suffer me to pray so continually, 
to think so worthily of God, as I am at other 
times accustomed, and would now most wish 
to do." 

GIESECKE TO E. SCHMIDT. 

Quecllinburg", Dec. 13. 

Your letter has anticipated mine. On Wed- 
nesday it was not possible for me to write more, 
after my letter to Klopstock. How much you 
must have suffered, my dear Eliza! Out of 
Hamburg there is no one who can be so sensi- 
ble of that as I am, because I best know how 
much you loved our departed saint. The loss of 
her must at any time have been a severe mis- 
fortune to you; but to lose her at such a time, 
and in such a manner! But Klopstock forbids 
you to murmur, — he who has lost much more, 
and who can judge of your feelings by his own. 



199 
How dear is he to me! How much do I grieve 
for him as my own friend and yours, so nearly 
allied to you, — worthy to have possessed his 
beloved, — worthy to lament her loss — and (yet 
may it be late!) worthy to receive her again in 
a better world. 

I thank you for the circumstantial account 
which you have given me of our M eta's death, 
though you have not answered all the questions 
which I should wish to ask. I thank my dear 
Klopstock for requesting you to give me this 

account. Deeply do my H and I feel and 

participate in your loss! On that which we our- 
selves have sustained I will be silent. 

We sympathise with you in the death of your 
youngest daughter. Three of your children 
have now passed into eternity; and we shall all 
follow those who are already departed. May 
God support us with this consolation as often as 
we shall undergo a separation from those whom 
we love. Though we are to submit to every 
calamity ordained by Him, He does not forbid 
a settled, soft melancholy: such is, I know, the 
melancholy of Klopstock; such is yours; such 
ought mine to be also. But even the softest me- 
lancholy may become prejudicial to us. Let 
not this be the case with you and Klopstock* 



200 
Encourage him when you shall find a favourable 
opportunity, to take a journey to Quedlinburg; 
it will afford great consolation to his mother, 
who is most anxiously concerned for him, and 
greatly afflicted on her own account at the loss 
of such a beloved daughter-in-law, who, as she 
is continually repeating, was entirely formed 
for her son. We will mourn with him; and 
when he shall be able, he shall give me an ac- 
count of his parting with his beloved. God tries 
him by severe affliction; but he will find him 
faithful. And consider, my dear Eliza, how 
you have yourself been supported. I did not 
imagine you could have survived this event, 
though I am sensible that God gives us the 
strength which is requisite for us. 

Your intelligence is too distressing to admit 
of my dwelling any longer on the subject at pre- 
sent. It is evident that Klopstock has fully re- 
signed himself to the will of that God, who 
gave to him his Meta, without doubt that he 
might enjoy her society for a longer time than 
the short period of four transitory years. 

May God comfort you, your poor mother, 
your sister Dimpfel, and all who participate in 
your sorrows. F and G assure Klop- 



201 
stock of their sincere sympathy. How many 
excellent people mourn his loss! 

MRS. R1EDENGER TO KLOPSTOCK'S MOTHER. 

Leipsick, Dec 15. 

You can scarcely imagine how much I was af- 
fected by the death of your amiable and virtuous 
daughter. How great is the loss of a husband in 
such a wife, and how great that of a whole fa- 
mily in such a sister and friend! I sympathise 
with you most cordially. But who, without 
guilt, can murmur against the decrees of an 
All- wise Providence? God has removed this 
excellent woman from the world, in order to 
render her more perfect. Her painful death has 
been but her passage into that eternal state, in 
which she is now far happier than we are. Yet 
we may hope to become sharers in her felicity, 
and to meet her again, never to be parted more. 
How much satisfaction does it afford me that I 
have enjoyed an acquaintance with this heroic 
woman! But it was not permitted to continue 
in this world; that happiness is reserved for 
another! 



202 



FUNKE TO KLOPSTOCK. 



Copenhagen, Dec. 18. 

How kind is my clearest Klopstoek in allow- 
ing me the melancholy satisfaction of talking to 
him of his loss! How high a value does it give 
your friend in his own eyes, to hear that by his 
letter he has darted a beam cf cheerfulness into 
the soul of Klopstoek! You wish, my dear 
friend, that I may soon write again. How can I, 
for a single day, delay to fulfil so flattering a 
request? What is a letter, compared with what I 
would do for you, if I had the power? 

I praise God with you, dearest friend, for 
the peace He has vouchsafed to your soul. Yet 
I shall not be quite free from anxiety on your 
account, till I am assured that your body ad- 
mits the refreshment of sleep, which it now 
despises. What shall I say to you? I can write 
only on one subject to have any claim on your 
attention, and that is too tender. How shall I 
so gently touch your wounded soul, as not to 
give it pain? — I will try. I will take the hint 
from your own letters. You desire Cramer to 
tell you his thoughts on the views of God in 
such an extraordinary trial; and though it never 
came into my head to suppose I could say any 



203 
thing that you did not far more perfectly know 
and feel, yet I think that meditations of this 
sort must now be so natural and pleasing to 
your heart, that I know not how to choose bet- 
ter. Here then are some of my thoughts. 

She was ripe for her birth into the life of an 
angel. Long already had she soughth er whle 
happiness in love, and knowledge, the fountains 
whence angels draw their bliss. The favour of 
her heavenly Father, who so soon accounted 
her worthy of immortality, without first prov- 
ing her by many years of suffering, has been 
visbly great towards her. He doubtless saw she 
was an obedient docile child, that would be 
willingly led by kindness and love; for how 
happy was she during the latter years of her 
life, and almost to the hour of her translation! 
Her best, her dearest, only friend, her guardian 
angel on earth, (as her heart, overflowing with 
the tenderest love, called him even in her last 
moments,) was all she wished for here. He felt 
it, and made her happy, and the remembrance 
of her will be his greatest earthly happiness, as 
long as he remains behind. In the midst of 
those blissful days, she passed into the infinite- 
ly superior glory of her Father and Redeemer, 
and her departure is mourned by many excel- 



204 
lent friends who loved her, and who now sup- 
port themselves with the hope of seeing her 
again. In the hour of dissolution only did she 
feel the lot of mortality, but praised be the God 
of mercy! no longer than while the sun a few 
times ran his daily course; and those short suf- 
ferings, in which by her stedfast patience she 
so willingly and nobly gave the last proof of 
obedience to her heavenly Father, must have 
rendered her entrance into the land of bliss the 
more enchanting. 

*' For when the short repose of death is past, 

" Then transport follows; . . . bliss . . . eternal bliss."* 

In like manner the short separation from her 
friend will make his re-union with her so much 
the more delightful. He suffers indeed, — the sad 
survivor, — but is he not rewarded by the con- 
soling thought, that in some measure he suffers 
in her stead? Would she have had strength to 
bear her lot, had it been that of her deserted 
friend? To sink under the stroke of such a fate, 
had been in her, who possessed every perfec- 
tion of the female heart, almost a virtue But 

he is a man. 

Permit me now, my beloved friend, to make 
some reflections of another sort. Should you 

* Klopstock. 



265 
consider some of them as the dreams of an un- 
restrained imagination, I can only answer that I 
write them with the wish that they may, not 
unpleasantly, employ you for a few minutes. 

We are both agreed, my dear Klopstock, in 
thinking that the present life is a gymnasium, 
where by various exercises and conflicts we are 
prepared for higher callings, for greater perfec- 
tion; or, more suitably to my present ideas, I 
may compare it to the first scenes of a drama, 
which only propose what is afterwards to be 
unravelled. But to render the sequel intelligi- 
ble, I must first give you a slight idea of some 
singular hypotheses, which indeed I consider 
only in that light, but which have given rise and 
form to my present thoughts. 

I am inclined from various causes to believe 
that in a future state the union of souls will still 
subsist, and will then be of a far more intimate 
and perfect kind. It must indeed be supposed 
that very few connexions will continue as they 
were here formed; for how seldom do souls for* 
Hied for each other meet! 

" Now in far distant climes their lot is cast, 

" And now long ages roll their course between."* 

* Klopstock's ode to Bodmer. 
S 



206 
According to these ideas, those marriages 
must be considered as the happiest, in which 
each party, in his proper sphere; has an equal 
capacity for perfection, and which have laid in 
this life the foundation of their eternal friend- 
ship. How great an influence both these causes 
must have dn their earthly happiness, I leave 
to yourself to judge; for you best can. In this 
point of view, you, my excellent friend, must 
be one of the happiest of men; for was she not, 
as Cramer justly said, " Klopstock in feminine 
beauty?" And of this I am certain, that your 
connexion is one of those few whcke duration 
will be eternal. For this cause you were to meet 
on earth, and possess each other as long as was 
needful to lay the deepest foundation for the 
tenderest and strongest, — for an everlasting 
friendship. How perfectly have you fulfilled this 
destiny! But that other views might also be 
fulfilled, she was to be translated to the world # 
of spirits before her friend. There was to be 
another soul, sprung from them, on whom the 
love of both might centre, to augment their 
happiness. That this also might have its pro- 
per perfections, the first embryo alone of its 
existence was unfolded, and so soon as the ten- 
der bud was formed in the maternal bosom, it 



207 
was transplanted to a happier climate, and ten- 
ded by its glorified mother and the angels. 
Without the aptitude to err and sin, this infant 
angel, who perhaps is an image of the united 
virtues of those from whom he sprung, enters 
into the society and instruction of the perfect. 
Free from the mortal covering, he learns to know 
the Godhead with higher powers, and the uni- 
verse with purer and finer organs. The tender 
mother perhaps will one day meet you with this 
darling of her heart. This I confidently hope 
to hear from you in future, if I be not myself 
a spectator of the heavenly scene. 

All these dreams are, I think at least, agreea- 
ble to analogy. All the happiness which crea- 
tures derive from each other, arises from their 
difference in some respects, and their great si- 
milarity, or sympathy, in others. If such fic- 
tions please us, without appearing true, they 
at least give an impulse to our thoughts. — 
And is happiness of merely human creation so 
delightful? How glorious, then, is that which 
He, whose thoughts and ways are infinitely 
above ours, has prepared for them that love 
Him! bliss which, according to his own gra- 
cious expression, has never entered into the 
heart of man. 



208 

I will not venture, dearest friend, to speak 
of those designs of Providence which regard 
yourself alone; though they may perhaps be the 
most important of all. You will think of them 
much more nobly, you will feel them far more 
strongly, and the Spirit of God himself will 
teach them to you. I will only try to consider, 
for a few minutes, the secondary objects; the 
effects to be produced through your means on 
others. 

Since I am convinced that the whole spirit- 
ual world is connected by certain principles, as 
universal as attraction in the material world, I 
must be of opinion that far less important events, 
that almost every word, perhaps even every 
thought, has its consequences in the world of 
spirits; and not for a time only, but in some 
sense for eternity. At present indeed we can 
only speak of what is visible. 

Since I consider your Messiah less as a mas- 
ter piece of human genius, than as a work for 
the glory of religion and the propagation of 
piety and virtue in more than one age, and 
more than one nation; since I am convinced 
how great a deed he does, who makes one 
pious thought alive and active in a human soul; 
since I know how a single passage in a beauti- 



209 
ful book, or in a religious conversation, has 
often had an influence on me for many days to- 
gether, (and I shall, to all eternity, thank those 
to whom I am indebted for the smallest benefit 
of this sort;) I do not think it an unimportant 
secondary object of this your trial, if it but 
give you some new ideas; if it awaken in your 
mind some great and strong emotions, before 
unknown to you; if it throw you into that state 
of happy inspiration, when your thoughts burn 
within you, and give an impulse to your ex- 
pressions, which, proceeding from a soul in an 
uncommon situation, will be the more likely to 
make their way to the hearts of those who are 
in similar circumstances; nay, should it only 
have more distant effects than these on the per- 
fection and extensive utility of your works; and 
such effects it must have. 

Among these secondary views, I reckon also 
M the effect which the account of the departure of 
your now immortal love will produce on all the 
friends of that angel; and how many virtuous 
friends she had! The best should sometimes be 
reminded that they are fallen; that death is a 
punishment; as they should also be led to feci 
the infinite value of the redemption by Jssus 
s 2 



210 
Christ, which extracts from this punishment 
its bitterness, and renders it a blessing. The 
thought of death, as it arises on such an occa- 
sion, is astonishingly beneficial. The best have 
their hours of indolence, but time stays not his 
course. This life, the seed time, which ends 
with the moment of death, becomes, by such 
awakening, more important; we feel more for- 
cibly the exhortation, " let us not be weary in 
well-doing, for in due time we shall reap." 
Life seems shorter, death nearer. In a word, 
all useful knowledge, which often is but theory 
in our minds, at such a time becomes practice. 

You, my dearest friend, have the merit, that 
all such views are fulfilled in some measure at 
your expense. I call it a merit, for I know that 
you will reap the most glorious fruit from it. 
I again repeat that I do not venture to touch on 
the ends which regard yourself alone, for on that 
subject you can best think, and feel, and speak; 
and yet you will here understand only a small part 
of them. Beyond the grave the full light shall 
first beam on you. I know that in the mean 
time you will adore the dispensations of God. 
" Thou wilt thank Him with thy song." 

Suffer me to hint at one thing more, which 
to me brings much comfort. Will not her death 



211 

be one clay less grievous to you? What is there 
remaining on earth, that in so high a degree 
possesses your heart? Does Clarissa at any mo- 
ment appear greater, than when she raises her- 
self above the most dreadful intelligence she 
could have received, with the thought, " The 
Almighty will have me depend on no one but 
Himself." 

We are called to high purposes. Human 
friendships are of little value, if they serve not 
to kindle in us a desire for immortality; and 
without doubt they are given us for that end, 
for when does the soul more ardently long after 
it, than on the bosom of a friend whom we wish 
to possess for ever? Certainly no hours of my 
life have fled more happily than those that I 
formerly spent in such feelings, with two friends 
of whom one is now an angel. My whole soul 
glows with rapture, when I recal the memory 
of those hours. But I have been deprived of 
them since I left Saxony. Friendship must be 
ripened to a perfect sincerity and heart- felt 
confidence, before it can burst into such blos- 
soms; before it can, by its own native heat, put 
forth this its most delicious fruit. In such mo- 
ments we forget ourself and our friend, w r e see 
only higher objects. We fly hand in hand to 



212 

Heaven, and with undazzled eyes behold the 
sun. We are never happier in friendship, though 
at the time we do not seem to feel it. I hoped 
soon to have enjoyed such scenes again, when 
half a year ago you quitted us, and I unknow- 
ingly took my last leave of the angel who now 
beholds and enjoys what we still hope for. God 
who sees into infinity has thus decreed! 

Will you not, my best loved friend, soon 
come to us? Be my guide in the journey which 
is yet before us both. May the Almighty bless 
the friend of my soul: bless him for ever and 
ever.* 



* As it is presumed that every person who has read this let- 
ter must wish to become more acquainted with the writer, I will 
here insert the account of his character, which is given by Pro- 
fessor Cramer, in his work entiled, " Klopstock, er und iiber 
ihn." 

" The number of Klopitock's friends was augmented in the 
year 1756, by two excellent men, who gained his whole heart. 
One of them was Funke, at that time a very young man, whom 
Gellert recommended to my father as a tutor for me and my 
brothers. I can never think of him without feeling the tenderest 
love and gratitude. I have to thank him for the greatest part of 
what I learned in my youth, and 1 am indebted to him for much 
more than knowledge, — for the early formation of my mind to 
integrity, independence, and equanimity. He always educated 
me with kindness, and suggested to me every instruction, with- 
out forcing it upon me; for his method was natural, simple, and 
easy. To him I would willingly erect a monument, but it is not 
requisite: he has erected one to himself, before the public, in 
several works, not voluminous indeed, but of so much the richer 
intrinsic value; and in the little circle of his social exertions, by 
the universal esteem with which he was regarded at Magdeburg, 



213 



KLOPSTOCK TO GIESECKE. 

Hamburg-, Dec. 20. 

Eliza and I are sitting opposite to each other, 
and both writing to you. She is copying my 
letter to Cramer for you. How I thank you for 
your last! much real comfort was contained in 
it. Also for your excellent fragment of a prayer, 

where he was the head of a school which his diligence soon in- 
creased from the number of forty to more than an hundred. — 
Happy Magdeburg", to possess such an instructor within its walls! 
His various talents and acquirements, added to his benevolent, 
friendly, feeling heart, and quick discernment of character, ren- 
dered him acceptable to every one. To a perfect knowledge of 
the ancient languages, and of classical literature, he united a 
taste for the beautiful, the sublime, and the useful, of modern 
times. Except Klopstock and Voss, Germany has perhaps never 
produced an equally profound and excellent linguist. He per- 
fectly understood both French and English, though he did not 
speak them; and as he early dedicated himself to theology, that 
profession induced him to study Hebrew, A.rabic, and other 
Oriental languages. He also made himself acquainted with Da- 
nish, whilst he lived with my father. He composed some excel- 
lent hymns. He understood music, sung at concerts in Copenha- 
gen, played on the harpsichord, and was well versed in compo- 
sition. It may easily be imagined how much his love of poetry, 
and knowledge of languages, recommended him to those great 
men who have contributed so much to the perfection of our own. 
In our house, he was not merely a tutor, but on various occa- 
sions an adviser and assistant to my father, and a sincere sharer 
in all his domestic joys, sorrows, and cares; an indispensable 
member of our family: respected by every one, beloved by all 
good men, and the confidential friend of Klopstock, Basedow, 
Schlegel, Rothe, and of all who distinguished themselves in that 
circle, by knowledge, by wit, by talents for writing, or by the 
social virtues." 



214 
which gave me much strength. I was greatly 
affected by the ideas of prayer and acceptance 
to which it gave rise. 

I was already at Altona when this letter ar- 
rived, for I went there the evening after my 
M eta's death, after having seen my dead son, 
but not my wife; I dreaded too much the return 
of that image. 

I forgot to mention what follows, in my let- 
ter to Cramer. Should I in future recollect any 
thing else, I will write it to you. 

Twice or thrice my Meta looked at me, 
without speaking a word, and then to Heaven, 
in such a manner that it is utterly impossible 
for me to describe it. I understood her perfect- 
ly. I cannot tell you with what a mixture- of 
sorrow, of confidence in God, and of certainty 
that she was dying, she looked from me to 
Heaven. Never, never, — though often in sor- 
row and in joy have I looked up with her to 
Heaven, — never did I see her so! The situation 
of a dying person is so singular, it seems to be- 
long neither to this world nor the next. I should 
have much to repeat, if I could with any degree 
of accuracy remember what from time to time 
I whispered to her, though in a very few words; 
knowing that she understood my meaning. Had 



215 
not her sufferings so pierced my soul, I should 
have been more master of myself, I should 
have been able to act more on design, and have 
remembered more. What I said to her from 
time to time was chiefly stronger feeling of 
comfort which conquered the feelings of pain. 

Eliza has just now for the first time shown 
me your letter. I could almost quarrel with 
her for not showing it to me sooner. Your let- 
ters, my Giesecke, have peculiar power to con- 
sole me; there is something refreshing in them. 
You must often write to me. 

My Meta left a paper with Eliza, on which, 
besides some other directions, she had written 
what she would have on her coffin. It consists 
of two passages from the eleventh book of the 
Messiah. The soul of the penitent thief speaks: 

" Was this then death? 
" O soft yet sudden change! — What shall 1 call thee? 
" No more — no more thy name be death — And thou, 
" Corruption's dreaded power, how changed to joy! 
" Sleep then companion of my first existence, 
" Seed sown by Go d, to ripen for the harvest!" 

The soul of the thief continues speaking, 
while the etherial body forms around it: 

" O what new life I feel! 
" Being of beings, how I rise! Not one, %■ 

" A thousand steps I rise! And yet I feel, 
" Advancing still in glory, I shall soar 



216 

" Above these thousand steps. — Near and more near, 
*' (Not in his works alone, these beauteous worlds,) 
" I shall behold th' Eternal, face to face!" 



I too wished to put something on the coffin, 
and I chose the following lines from the second 
stanza of my ode: 

" Though unseen by human eye, 
" My Redeemer's hand is nigh. 
■' He has pour'd salvation's light 
" Far within the vale of night" 



217 



BASEDOW TO KLOPSTOCK. 



January 13. 

I received your letter at Copenhagen; other- 
wise I should have answered it sooner. Your 
other letter was sent to me by Cramer. The 
agreement between them affected me extreme- 
ly. I should be more surprised at the state of 
your mind, if I were less sensible of the power 
of religion. Praise be to Him, who has brought 
life and immortality to light, that we might not 
sorrow, as the heathen, which have no hope. 
You will now rejoice that religion has been the 
principal object of your diligent study; since 
by that means it is become more lively and 
more active in your heart, than it is in that of 
many a well meaning christian. 

Since I read your last letter, I have loved 
you more than you can perhaps imagine. God 
will not withdraw his comfort from you; he will 
still preserve you in life and health. We shall 
still pass many improving hours together; at 
least this is my ardent wish. 



213 



GlESECKE TO KLOPSTOCK. 



Quedlinburg-, Jan. 28. 

I thank you most sincerely for your letter, 
and for imparting to me that which you wrote 
to Cramer. They have very much gratified and 
edified me; and not only confirmed my hope 
that God will support you, but convinced me, 
that He can do, and actually does, more than 
we, with all our confidence in Him, presume 
to expect. You are right in exhorting your 
friends to praise Him with you. I am persua- 
ded that He will still further strengthen you. 

Keep your promise of communicating to me 
whatever you may recollect of the last days and 
hours of your blessed Meta. Accounts of this 
sort are important to every christian; and how 
much more when they are, at the same time, ac- 
counts of our friends. I see that God can turn all 
things to good for them that are his; and I must 
ascribe it to this cause, if my letters have given 

you any satisfaction I know not what I 

wrote. 

How shall I rejoice in the spring, if it 
bring you to us! Then will I weep with you, 
and weeping praise our God. I have yet 
much to ask you, and much to say of the bles- 



219 
sed princess. There too we have experienced 
that christians have peculiar comfort. Your 
angel is now with her. I feel assured that they 
know each other. Had your Meta gone before 
her into eternity, she would have rejoiced at the 
thought of seeing her there, as she did in her 
last hours, in the hope of meeting others of my 
glorified friends, of whom we had often spoken. 

Dr. YOUNG TO KLOPSTOCK. 

Wellwyn, Feb. 4. 

.... I cannot lay down my pen, without 
telling you how much my heart sympathises 
with yours in your very, very severe loss. I am 
but too well qualified to do so, because it is not 
long since a similar affliction befel me. I say 
not long j although many years have since elap- 
sed. But the wound was so deep, that it ap- 
pears to me still recent, and it often bleeds, as 
if I had but yesterday received it. May the 
Almighty God support you, in his great 
mercy, with many, many other blessings. 

Fatis cowtraria fata rependens. 



220 



COUNTESS BERNSTORFF TO KLOPSTOCK. 

March 13. 

You have sent me a sheet of letters from the 
Dead to the Living, without telling me by 
whom they are written; but I think I can guess. 
It is not you; it is your wife. I beg you to con- 
tinue them, for I think them very interesting. 
I particularly like this sort of letters, when they 
are so well written as these are. 



FROM THE SAME TO KLOPSTOCK. 

March 20. 

How much am I obliged to you for having 
complied with my wishes, by sending me the 
continuation of the letters from the dead. I can 
but faintly tell you how much I feel in reading 
them. To how many reflections have they led 
mel I hope there are many more of them, but 
there will still be too few for me. 



221 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM Dr. YOUNG TO 
KLOPSTOCK.* 

April 12, 1761. 

I thank you for the melancholy, yet pleasing 
sight of your dear wife's monument. I read in 
it the christian character of her husband. Its 
last word was the common salutation of the 
primitive christians, when they met each other, 
— Resurrexit. Should not our hearts burn with- 
in us at the blessed sound? That word carries 
in it all our hope and joy. We shall soon bury 
all our other hope and joy, never to rise again. 
And shall beings that have no end, prize any 
thing that has? Christ is indeed the truth, and 
the world a lie. Infidels believe it, and are un- 
done. 

I love your faith and virtue, I admire your 
genius, I deplore your loss, I pity your distress, 
I pray for your prosperity, and shall be ever 
proud of your commands; being, most cordially, 

My dear sir, 

Your most obedient and humble servant, 

E. Young. 

* This letter was written after the publication of Mr. Klop- 
stock's book, but the editor believes that the insertion of it will 
require no apology. 

t2 



222 



Mr. KLOPSTOCK, in continuatioa. 

Thus far the letters of my friends 

She is not yet buried in the place where I 
hope to rest beside her. I intend to have our 
grave made in some village church-yard by the 
Elbe. I will choose a beautiful country, for 
the sake of those who may visit it. With the 
same view, and not from the vanity of adorn- 
ing a very simple tomb, I have requested her 
two sisters each to plant a tree by the side of 
her grave, and her dearest friend to sow flow- 
ers upon it. 

On the grave- stone shall be two wheat- 
sheaves, negligently laid one on the other. Un- 
der them, 

" Seed sown by God, to ripen for the harvest." 

(In the middle of the grave-stone these words:) 

MARGARETTA KLOPSTOCK. 

There, where death is not, awaits 

Her friend, her beloved, her husband, 

Whom she so loves, by whom she is so beloved! 

But from hence, from this grave, 

Thou, my Klopstock, and I, and our son, 

From hence will we rise together. 

Worship Him who also died, was buried, and arose! 

She was born March 16, 1728: 
Married June 10, 1754: and died Nov. 28, 1758. 
Her son sleeps in her arms. 
t 

Hamburg, April 10, 1759. 



223 



LETTERS 

WRITTEN BY KLOPSTOCK TO HIS DEPARTED META. 

I HAVE hitherto restrained my wish of wri- 
ting something which might perhaps be made 
known to thee before my death; because I fear- 
ed that my feelings would take too strong hold 
on me. But now that I have just read over my 
last letters to thee, I can no longer withstand 
that wish.- — Where shall I begin, my now quite 
heavenly friend? Can it be, that some small 
part of thy present unspeakable happiness con- 
sists in thinking of me? Ah! wretched I was 
left behind. — I am a sinner, and still on this 
side of the grave. Yet did the Being of beings 
permit me to foresee my fate. Of this I am 
convinced, that it makes a part of thy present 
happiness to remember, what never can be for- 
gotten by me, the grace that I received at the 
time when I was forced to take leave of thee. 
Thou must have seen in my face the joy which 
God gave me. Dost thou know how I felt, my 
Meta? Yes, I will still call thee by that sweet 



224 
name. My soul was highly exalted. I no more 
saw death in thy face; I felt not the clammy 
coldness of thy hand. I cannot fully describe my 
situation; but this I know, that to a martyr over 
whom I had seen Heaven open, I should have 
cried with no other feelings, " Thanksgiving, 
and worship, and praise, be to the All-wise and 
the All-merciful!" May this be still my ruling 
thought, and be that which thou shalt first hear 
of me; if, indeed, thou canst hear of me before 
my death. The angels concern themselves with 
many things relating to us mortals, and perhaps 
with more than we believe. Or perhaps the first 
of our friends who goes to Heaven will tell thee 
what I now write. In this hope I will repeat, 
Thanksgiving, and worship, and praise, be to 
the All-wise and the All-merciful! Yes, with 
this heavenly salutation shall our blessed friend 
accost thee, in my name, O thou perfected, and 
highly beloved! 



225 



LETTER II. 



I was forced to break off; but I will now tell 
thee something, I cannot repeat it all, of what 
befel me after I left thee. I had before prayed 
with much uneasiness and anguish: I could 
now pray with quite different feelings. I in- 
treated perfect submission; my soul hung on 
God; I was refreshed, I was comforted, and 
prepared for the stroke that was already so near, 
— nearer than I thought. I believed that thou 
wouldst yet live some hours, (this was my only 
hope,) and that according to thy wish, express- 
ed not long before I left thee, I might once 
more be permitted to pray with thee. But how 
often are our thoughts not as God's thoughts. 
Thou wert departed! They told me so, but in 
such a manner that for a moment I believed 
thee delivered of our child, and heard in the 
next that thou wast with God! — This stroke, 
which overcame the others, only shook me. 
How was this, thou beloved of my soul? My 
prayer was heard. I strove to be perfectly re- 
signed; and perhaps thou hadst then for the first 
time prayed for me in the other world. — I wept 
not, nor yet was I in that state of extreme emo- 



226 
tion in which one cannot weep. I said soon 
after thy death, " She is not far from me." And 
thou wast not far from me; we were both in 
the hand of the Omnipresent. After some time, 
I wished to see that which, just before, I had 
called my Meta. They prevented me, and a 
second stillness came into my soul, as I said 
to one of our friends, " Then I will forbear. 
She will arise again!" 

The second night came the blessing of thy 
death, (till then I had considered it only as a 
trial,) the blessing of such a death in its full 
power came on me. I passed above an hour in 
silent rapture. Only once in my life did I ever 
feel any thing similar, when, in my youth, I 
thought myself dying. But the moments of my 
expected departure then were somewhat dif- 
ferent. My soul was raised with gratitude and 
joy, but that sweet stillness was not in it. Thou 
knowest how alive my feelings were, and how 
words flowed to me like a torrent. But now the 
highest degree of peace with which I am ac- 
quainted was in my soul. This state began with 
my recollecting that thy Accomplisher and my 
Advocate said, " He who loveth father or mo- 
ther more than me, is not worthv of me." It is 



227 
impossible to describe all the blessings of this 
hour. I was never before with such certainty 
convinced of my salvation. I thank thee, with 
my whole soul, my heavenly friend! for I have 
a strong idea that thy prayers obtained for me 
this great blessing. So, perhaps, at our parting, 
— ah! the time will come when we shall part 
no more! — Now, my Meta, do I weep, but 
thanks be to Him who then enabled me to re- 
joice. — At our parting perhaps I did not beg 
in vain, that thou wouldst be my guardian an- 
gel; or rather, this our last wish was heard of 
God! 



228 



LETTER III. 

How much should I have to write, if I allow- 
ed myself to be at all circumstantial in the de- 
scription of what I now feel for thee; now that 
I am alone, that I live without thee! How much 
should I have to tell thee! But I must restrain 
mvself. 

I should oftener give way, my Meta, to the 
melancholy that oppresses me, I should think 
myself justified in giving way to it, if I had not 
experienced so much grace, at the time when 
the stroke of thy death fell on me; if I did not 
remember it with joy and gratitude. I am 
obliged to call it to mind to restrain the melan- 
choly which came on even now as I recollected 
that there are but a few days to thy birth day, 
which thou didst not outlive. How shall I pass 
it without her? But I will ask this question no 
more. Was I not wonderfully supported on the 
day of thy death? — A little while ago, as I was 
alone, at the approach of night, I imagined so 
strongly, I could almost say with such a degree 
of certainty, that thou wert before me, that I 
more than once spoke to thee. Oh! if thou wert 
indeed with me, then I need say nothing more. 



229 
Ye inhabitants of Heaven! are ye sometimes 
around us? Oh, if this is allowed, my Meta has 
often already been with me! And why should 
ye not be permitted sometimes to visit us? Are 
ye not like the angels; and are not the angels 
sent down to minister to them who shall be 
heirs of salvation?* But if thou hast not been 
allowed to visit me, thou wilt soon, perhaps, 
hear something of me. I believe that the num- 
ber is not small of those who are my friends 
without my knowing them; and whom I should 
love, if I did know them. Perhaps it may not 
be long before one of these will die, and then, 
my Meta, then will he hasten to thee with my 
heavenly salutation, (may not call it so?) and 

• " All the ideas that man can form of the ways of Providence, 
and of the employments of angels and spirits, must ever fall 
short of the reality; but still it is right to think of them, and to 
raise his ideas as high as he can. He glorifies the inhabitant of 
Heaven, and at the same time gives a proof of human great- 
ness, when he raises the idea of perfection to the highest degree 
that we are capable of conceiving. What can have a more exalt- 
ing influence on the earthly life, than in these first days of our 
existence, to make ourselves conversant with the lives of the 
blessed, with the happy spirits whose society we shall hereafter 
enjoy, nnd with the future glories of the virtuous. By these ideas 
the mind is prepared and formed to step forth with more confi. 
dence on the great theatre of the world We should accustom 
ourselves to consider the spirits of Heaven as always around us; 
observing all our steps, and witnessing our most secret actions. 
Whoever is become familiar with these ideas, will find the most 
solitary place peopled with the best society." — Klopstock. 

U 



230 
with an account of the mercy which I have ex- 
perienced. How narrow are my thoughts! As 
if thou couldstnot already know by other means 
what has befallen me since thy death; as if thou 
didst not much more accurately know the in- 
tentions and the consequences of it. — May I 
fulfil the intentions, which God, in this great 
trial, and in the grace wherewith He supported 
me, had in view! I beseech, I implore thee, 
merciful Jehovah! let me not quite fall short 
of them! O what it is to wander still in the 
wilderness, and never be at home! How dan- 
gerous is the temptation to sin! 

If by means with which I am unacquainted 
thou dost know something of me, yet there is 
probably much which is not important enough 
to be told thee. I will therefore mention yet a 
little more of what I wish thee to hear. Certain- 
ly not with such sorrow as can in any degree 
diminish thy present felicity, yet with some soft 
emotion for my fate, thou feelest now what 
those letters must be to me, those letters in 
which thou didst suppose me where thou art 
now, and thyself yet here. " From this world, 
for ever"* my Meta. — Yes, it is short, very 

* See Page 148. 



231 

short, the for ever of this world. How soon 
wast thou taken from me! How suddenly was 
thy time, with all its happiness, gone for me! 
But never, never will I complain! Not even 
that the for ever of this world often appears to 
me far from short. How can I complain? How 
can I forget the comfort, the gracious refresh- 
ment which restored my soul, when my path 
was the roughest, when the wilderness of my 
pilgrimage most resembled that shadowy vale 
which thou didst traverse? Yes, Meta, no heart 
but such as thine, could, with a tenderness be- 
yond comparison, have wished to outlive thy 
beloved! Full well I know how often and how 
earnestly thou hast wished this when thou wert 
with me, and what I felt at the time! If a human 
being could merit any thing from God, I would 
say that by this pure tenderness thou hast me- 
rited not to be the deserted one, to have thy 
course so soon accomplished! It is exalted vir- 
tue to bear the cross as God wills; but how 
very unequal should I have been to bear it? 
Thou rememberest how the mighty arm that 
has led me, had already begun to support me 
when we talked of thy death, and I always broke 
off the subject by saying, " As our God will!" 
Thou knowest how cheerful we then were. It 



232 
was not then far off, that hour of my torture, 
and I was to be prepared for it? Thou too 
wouldst not have been too much cast down. To 
thee too would have been given strength, more 
than thou hadst dared to hope. And thankful, 
(for with gratitude didst thou always receive 
whatever came from the hand of God,) thank- 
ful wouldst thou have been, and have repressed 
the grief of thy heart. Ah, Meta, dost thou not 
still love me? love me so that thy heart, though 
in Heaven, longs for me? How sweet, how in- 
expressibly sweet is this thought! Yes, thou art 
for ever mine, thou wert made for me, my now 
quite heavenly love! O that it would come, the 
moment of our meeting, that moment full of 
joy beyond expression; O that it would come! 
— But, no, — I must not give way to this idea. 
If I have ever clearly seen how confined we are, 
even with regard to our favourite pursuits, I 
mean the pursuit of our individual happiness; 
if I have ever seen this strongly, it was when, 
soon after thy death, I sometimes wished that 
thou mightest in some way make thyself known 
to me. What wish could be more natural? And 
what truer happiness could I have wished for 
myself in this world? yet what wish can be 



233 
formed with less hope? — And why is it not ful- 
filled? Because such a discovery is incompatible 
with the general happiness of the whole. Thou 
seest now the whole system of this universal 
happiness. Would it be disturbed by thy making 
thyself known to me, in my last moments? O 
if thou mayest, without a doubt thou wilt! Then 
wilt thou hover, not invisibly, around me; then 
— what heaven is in the thought! — then wilt 
thou appear to my closing eyes? But do I not 
wish too much? Yes, far too much, if I spoke 
of reward; but I speak of grace which God 
through thee might grant me! 



u 2 



234 



LETTER IV. 






The idea of thee, when thou wert near death, 
often appears to me now, much more affecting 
than it was at the moment I saw thee; at that 
moment of my great strengthening. I have need 
of all that is sweet and enchanting in the thought 
of the resurrection, and of the Almighty Awa- 
kener, to free myself from this image. Let him 
who knows not yet the bliss of the resurrection, 
who has not tasted its comforts, let him see a 
friend or a wife die, and he will learn it. Though 
by this thought I can free myself from this im- 
pression, yet I am now glad that I did not see 
thee dead; however difficult it was to me at the 
time to forbear. Thou who couldst not endure a 
single day's absence from me, (Oh, well I know 
how ill thou couldst endure it!) thou didst con- 
tentedly see me leave thee, and didst not send 
for me to return, though I had promised to pray 
with thee again. What was this change in thee? 
Thou wast quite detached from this world. It 
was the beginning of eternal life! Though I 
know that thou hast never ceased to love me, 
yet this thought would be painful to me, had 



235 
it not been for the sake of the great Object 
of our worship, that thou didst tear thyself 
even from me. But when thou hadst obtained 
the prize — then, (this I hope to God who gave 
thee to me) then didst thou think on me again; 
then didst thou wish, with a peaceful wish of 
heaven, that I might soon come to thee! The 
will of God be done, as in heaven, so also on 
the earth! 



236 



LETTER V. 



I often think of thy present felicity, but how 
imperfectly! As we, so short a time since, 
thought together of the happiness of the other 
world. Many a time do I figure thee to myself 
with the blessed one who was thy child; thou 
happy mother, of whose bliss I have scarcely a 
distant idea; often do I represent thee to myself, 
soaring amidst those worlds, a few of which 
illuminate our nights, and where thou art con- 
tinually becoming acquainted with new and 
countless multitudes of their inhabitants. Then 
how expanded is my soul, and how detached 
from earth! Thou knowest how I used to be 
enraptured with the thought of those multitudes 
of happy beings! How much more now that 
thou art amongst them! Here I can in some de- 
gree follow thee, but when I would trace thee 
where thou beholdest Him who has redeemed 
us, Him whom even on earth thou didst so 
much love, — I lose myself, and my ideas almost 
totally fail! 

The seer of the Apocalypse saw, on Mount 
Sion, high in heaven, a Lamb, standing cover- 
ed with wounds of glory, and with precious 



237 
blood of salvation! There stood around him 
an hundred and forty-four thousand redeemed; 
conspicuous on their foreheads was inscribed 
the name of the Everlasting Father. As the 
sea, as the voice of thunder, the harps resound- 
ed in the hands of the redeemed. Of the Son 
they sung, of the Son! For life eternal descend- 
ed on their souls from the glorious wounds of 
the Lamb! 

I will take leave of thee no more. We are 
both in the hand of Him who is every where! 



ODES. 



ALL who have read Kolpstock's Odes must 
be sensible of the difficulty, perhaps I might 
say the impossibility of giving the English rea- 
der a just idea of them. Those which are now 
offered to the public, are selected from many 
which Miss Smith translated, because, from 
their subjects, they are connected with the pre- 
ceding letters. For the simple mode of transla- 
tion which is here adopted, I find the following 
apology in an unfinished preface by Miss 
Smith. 

" I venture to offer a few remarks, to obviate 
some objections, which I know will be made, 
to the translations of those odes of Klopstock 
which appear in this work. It will be said they 
are rough. I grant it; but let it be remembered 
that my aim has not been to make finished En- 
glish odes, but to give to the English reader, 
as far as lay in my power, an idea of Klopstock's 



240 
odes. Klopstock himself is rough;* not because 
he was ignorant of the power of harmony, for 
he studied that, and brought the German lan- 
guage to a pitch of excellence it had never be- 
fore attained; but he is rough, because his sub- 
jects in general are such as do not admit of 
polished versification. They are sublime, wild, 
often unconnected except by some thin thread 
of the poet's fancy, which every reader will not 
catch. The merit of the odes consists in the depth 
of thought, the conciseness of expression, the 
loftiness of the ideas; their character throughout 
is energy and strength. And shall these magni- 
ficent poems be tortured into our dull tune of 
ten syllables, because the English ear is so ac- 
customed to it that it is become a sort of na- 
tional lullaby? Shall a noble thought be dragged 
out into weakness, to fill up a drawling line? 
Shall the expression be totally lost to make a 
jingle at the end? Klopstock had an aversion to 
rhyme." 

* As I am informed that the truth of this assertion may justly 
be disputed, I beg leave to observe that. Miss Smith was self- 
taught, and little accustomed to hear the German language either 
read or spoken, though she understood it remarkably well. Her 
enthusiastic admiration of Klopstock was not diminished by her 
supposing him occasionally deficient in what she always consi- 
dered as by no means essential in the composition of sublime and 
animated poetry 



241 
To this unfinished sketch I will only add my 
persuasion, on the authority of good judges, 
that the few poems which are printed in this 
volume will be found to convey the sense of 
the author with an uncommon degree of accu- 
racy, and with much of the strength of the 
original. 



I 

TO EBERT. 



A DREAD idea, Ebert! from the cheerful board 

Drives me to deepest gloom; 
In vain thou bid'st me o'er the care-dispelling glass 

To cherish cheerful thoughts; 
I must away, and weep. — Perhaps thesd soothing tears 

May wash away my woe. 4 

soothing tears! by nature wisely were ye given • 

To attend on human grief. 
Were it not so, — could man not weep his misery, 
How would he bear it then? 

1 must away, and weep, — my agonizing thought 

Yet powerful strives within me. 
Ebert! suppose them now all gone, — the sacred grave 

O'erwhelming all our friends, 
And we two lonely ones, — we only left of all. 

Art thou not speechless, Ebert? 
Looks not thine eye mournful around, then fixes viewless? 

So my sight died away; 
So I too trembled, when this terrific thought 

In thunder struck me first. 
As when a traveller hastening to his home, his wife, 

His manly hopeful son, 

i 



242 

His blooming daughter; weeps ev'n now for their embrace, — 

Him thunder overtakes, 
Striking destroys, then turns his form to dust, 

And up in triumph seeks 
Again the lofty clouds of Heaven, — so struck the thought 

My agitated mind: 
My eye waslost in darkness, and my trembling knees 

T^nnerved and povv'rless sunk. 
In silent night the vision of the dead pass'd by,— 

I saw our friends all pass; — 
And oh! in silent night I saw the open graves, 

I saw th' immortal host! 
When tender Giesecke's eye shall smile on me no more,— 

When far from Radichen 
Our upright Cramer pines, — when Gartner, Rabener's 

No more Socratic speaks, — [tongue 

In the harmonious life of noble-minded Gellert 

When every string is hush'd, — 
Beyond the grave when open-hearted Rothe 

Seeks the companions of his joy, — 
When lively Schlegel from a longer exile 

To no friend writes again, — 
When in my dearest Schmidt's embrace my eye no more 

Weeps tears of tenderness,— 
When with our fathers Hagedorn is laid to rest; 

Ebert! what are we then? 
We, dedicate to pain, whom here a mournful fate 

Has left behind them all! 

Should one of us then die — (my thought leads on 

From shade to deepest gloom) — 
Should one of us then die, and one alone remain, 

And should that one be me; — 
Should she too then have loved me, she who is to love, 

Should she too rest in dust, 
And I remain the only one — remain alone on earth,— 

Wilt thou, immortal mind, 
Thou soul for friendship form'd, behold those empty days, 

And yet retain thy feeling? 
Or wilt thou stupified suppose them nights, and sleep, 

And rest, devoid of thought? 
But shouldst thou then awake to feel thy misery 

Eternal suffering mind! 



243 

Call when thou wak'st my lost friend's image from the grave; 

Restore me only that. 
Ye graves, where sleep my friends, abodes of those I love, 

Why lie ye scattered wide? 
Ah! why not side by side placed in a blooming vale, 

Or gathered in a grove? 
O lead the dying son of other days; — I'll go 

With tottering steps, and plant 
On every grave a cypress; — the yet shadeless trees 

For after ages tend; 
At night upon the topmost boughs the heavenly forms 

Of my immortals see, 
And trembling raise my head to Heav'n, and weep, and die 

O bury then the dead 
Beside the grave by which he died. Corruption! take, 

Then take my tears and me. 
Cease, sable thought! O cease to thunder in my soul. 

Deep as eternity, 
As judgment fearful, cease. The o'envhelm'd soul 

No more can grasp the thought. 



TO FANNY. 



WHEN I am dead, when all those bones are dust, 

When thou, my eye, hast, closing, ceased to weep; 

No more, to where the unknown future dwells, 

In humble expectation to look up; 

When my poetic fame, of youthful tears 

The fruit, and of my love to Thee, Messiah, 

Is also pass'd away; or but by few 

Is in this lower world remember'd still; 

When thou, my Fanny, too, hast long been dead, 

And when thy mild eye's cheerful, placid smile, 

And its expressive look, is also quench'd; 

When, unobserv'd of the ignoble crowd, 

The virtuous deeds of all thy life are done, 



244 

More worthy fame than is the poet's song, 

And ah! when one more fortunate than I 

Thou shalt have lov'd, (O leave me yet my pride,) 

More foi-tunate, but not more virtuous; 

Then will there be a day when I shall rise, 

Then will there be a day when thou wilt rise; 

Then shall no fate again divide the souls 

Which, Nature, thou didst for each other doom. 

Then, with the scale in his uplifted hand, 

When God shall fortune against virtue weigh, 

What 's now discordant in the course of things 

Shall then in endless harmony unite. 

Then, as thou standest new-awak'd, will I 

Hasten to thee, nor wait until a seraph 

Shall take my hand, and lead to thee, immortal: 

Then shall thy brother, tenderly by me 

Belov'd, haste with me. Then, with tears of rapture^ 

Will I beside thee stand, and call thee Fanny, 

And press thee to my heart. O then, eternity, 

Thou'rt all our own! Ye joys, above the power 

Of song, O come, ye joys unspeakable! 

Unspeakable as now my woe! Till then 

Run on my life! The hour will surely come, 

That calls us to the silent, cypress shade. 

Ye intervening hours, clouded and dark, 

Be dedicate alone to mourning love! 



245 



TO BODMER, 



HE who directs our fate, disperses oft 

In empty air the purest wish we breathe 

After some golden image of delight, 

And sets a labyrinth where man would walk, 

Deep in the distance of eternity 

God sees; — a scene, to us invisible. 

Alas! they find not one the other, they 

Who for each other and for love were made; 

Now in far distant climes their lot is cast, 

And now long ages roll their course between. 

Ne'er did my eye behold thee, Addison, 

Ne'er did my ear learn wisdom from tby lips. 

Nor ever yet did Singer* smile on me, 

She who unites the living and the dead. 

Thee too I never shall behold, thou who 

In after times, when I have long been dead, 

Shalt rise most like me, made for my own heart, 

And thine will pant for me. I shall not see 

How thou employ'st thy little span of life, 

Unless thy guardian angel I become. 

Thus did His sovereign power ordain, who views 

The fathomless abyss of infinite. 

Yet oft, in mercy, doth He bring to pass 

What the poor trembling heart scarce dar'd to hope. 

As from a dream awak'd, we see our bliss, 

Enraptur'd see our fondest wish fulfill'd: 

Such was my joy when Bodmer first I met. 

Mrs. Kowe.* 

x 2 



246 



THE RECANTATION. 

LONG drown'din deepest woe, I learnt the pow'r 

Of love; that love which, fled from earth, still deigns 

To visit humble virtue's calm retreat. 

Such as the first of lovers felt, when first, 

All innocence, he view'd the glassy stream; 

He saw the flowers which grac'd th' o'erhanging bank; 

With inexperienc'd eye he saw, and smil'd! 

Thus love appear'd to me. Why then, O pain, 

Didst thou seek out thy deepest-wounding shaft, 

With keenest anguish barb'd, to plunge me deep, 

Deep in a night of Woe! Years are gone by, 

Long years of pain, since that fell stroke was struck. 

At length, beyond my hope, the night retires; 

'Tis past, — and all my long-lost joys awake; 

Smiling they wake, my long-forgotten joys. 

Are ye indeed return'd, with that sweet peace 

Which blest my soul, when yet my life was happy? 

O how I wonder at my alter'd fate! 

Again I feel myself restor'd to joy. 

Again with rapture beats my grateful heart. 

Can it be pride, or apathy, which works 

This happy change, and heals my wounded soul? 

No — these my soul disdains. What is it then? 

virtue, gentle virtue, say, dost thou 
Thy humble votary richly thus reward? 
But is it thou alone? or dare I hope 

That from thy guiding hand I shall receive 

The lovely maid who softly smiles on me? 

Fair she appear'd when first in sleep beheld, 

But fairer when before my waking eyes 

She glides along. I strive to speak — * O stay. 

Why dost thou haste away? 'Tis thee I love. 

Ah! well thou know'st this heart. Too well thou know'st 

How tenderly it loved. Is there a heart 

Which loves like mine? Yes, Cidli, thine alone. 

1 taught thee first to love; in seeking thee 

1 learnt what true love was. It rais'd my heart 
From earth to heav'n; and now thro' Eden's groves 
With thee it leads me on to endless joy!* 



247 



THE BAND OF ROSES. 

I FOUND her sleeping in the shade, 
I bound her with a Band of Roses; 
She felt it not, but slumber'd still. 

I gaz'd on her; — my life then hung- 
Gn her life, with that look, for ever: 
I felt it deeply, but I could not speak. 

I whisper'd softly, but she did not hear; 
I gently shook the Band of Roses; 
Then from her slumber she awoke. 

. She gazed on me; — her life then hung 
On my life, with that look, for ever; 
And round us was Elysium. 



248 



TO CIDLI SLEEPING. 

SHE sleeps! O gentle sleep, shed from thy wings, 
Balsamic life o'er all her tender frame! 
From Eden's pure and peaceful fount 
Draw forth some drops of liquid crystal, 

And sprinkling them where from her lovely cheek 
The rose is fled, restore the glowing tints; 
And thou, sweet Peace of Virtue and of Love, 
Thou fairest of the graces, with thy wing, 



O shade my Cidli! See, she sleeps; how still! 
Be silent thou my softest string: thy laurel wreath 
Shall fade, if from her slumber thou awake, 
With gentlest whisper wake my sleeping love! 



249 



To Mr. SCHMIDT. 



SLEEP from my eyes is fled, with all its train 

Of airy dreams, for poets only made. 

The hill, the vale is still; o'erspread with dew, 

That silent creeps within the slumbering flowers. 

Friend, all thing-s sleep! My best, my kindest friend, 

In this belov'd, this solemn stillness, Schmidt, 

With strong- emotion do I think on thee, 

On thee, though distant far. O that these arms, 

Thou much beloved, could press thee to my heart! 

Thy mournful friend weeps for thy lost embrace, 

Of which our cruel fate deprives me still. 

Behold, how noble souls like brothers love; 

No — brothers love not half so tenderly. 

Yet dost thou, fate, divide those noble souls, 

And pierce with deepest woe the bleeding- heart! 

Thus am I left to breathe my secret sighs 

Far from the faithful friend, whose gentle look 

Shall comfort me no more' Thus do I breathe 

My secret sighs, as awful midnight still, 

And what I sigh can reach no human ear. 

Now torturing thought restrains the bursting tear. 
What agonizing image tears my soul! 
Again the form of my lost w T ife I see, 
She lies before me, and she die9 again; 
Again she smiles on me, again she dies. 
Her eyes now close, and comfort me no more; 
No more her mouth divine shall whisper peace, 
That mouth for ever full of God and heaven. 
No more she gently chides the silent tear 
That fearful shrunk from her observing eye. 
She saw the tear, was griev'd, and firmly cry'd, 
" Thou lov'st me, O my friend, and dost thou weep?" 
I check'd the tear, in spite of inward grief, 
Calm and resign'd, I sigh'd not to be heard. 
O who shall now forbid my tears to flow? 
Her voice inspires with fortitude no more! M 



250 

Still will I strive to check my ceaseless woe, 
That if she now my guardian angel be, 
And view me still, she may not love me less, 
Because I have not strength of mind like hers. 
Now that amongst immortals thou dost dwell, 
If still weak mortals may deserve thy care, 
O if thou love me still, by heavenly rules 
Condemn me not; — I am a man, and mourn. 
Support me, though unseen: thy cheering eye 
Can arm my soul with more than human strength; 
Then will I leam to check my woe, till thou 
In death shalt teach me to be firm like thee! 

O never, never can I cease to mourn 
This best of friends! Mourn with me distant times, 
More virtuous times perhaps than ours. I see 
Around her grave, I see ye weeping stand, 
And strew the turf with flow'rs, and midst your tears 
Say to your sighing daughters, " Be like her!" 
O friend of virtue, in thy I arms I wish 
To shed these tears, for thou wouldst weep with me! 

[To these translations is added an original poem by Miss Smith.] 
TO KLOPSTOCK. 

BY MISS SMITH. 

ACH, sie finden sich nicht, die f iir einander doch, 

Und zur liebe geschaffen sind 
Jetzo trennet die naeht fernerer Himmel sie 

Jetzo lange jahrhunderte.* 

Klopstock. 

THUS, blessed Spirit, ran thy deep complaint; 
In all things else, to Heaven's high will resign'd, 
This only seem'd too hard: — and hard indeed 
It is, that time and space should intervene 
To part those souls, by their Creator's hand 
Attun'd to concord; — seeming thus ordain'd 

* Alas! they find not one the other,— they 
Who for each other and for love were made; 
Now in far distant climes their lot is cast, 
And now long ages roll their course between. 
•* Ode to Bodmer page 245. 



251 

To mingle sounds in heavenly harmony, 

Yet sunder'd now so far, no breeze can waft 

The dying- tones of one, to vibrate on 

The other's sympathetic chords. — Nor is 

This all. — Doom'd each to mix with neighbour notes, 

Notes, not perhaps ill-sounding, yet with them 

Jarring in discord insupportable. 

This — this indeed is hard. It tempts suspicion 

Of providence eternal, tempts to think 

The great machine of nature is deranged. 

Vain, babbling reason, peace! — Now Klopstock knows, 
He knows, and bids thee sing, — this too is trial! 
For trial were we sent to dwell on earth, 
And what severer could be found than this? 
What other is there, to a virtuous mind 
That sees the nothingness of present life, 
The glory of the future, — and with love 
Unmix'd, looks up to Him, the only good? 
Sickness or health, riches or poverty, 
To such a mind are nothing; easy weights, 
If friendship help to bear them; — but to live 
With those whose ev'ry word, and gesture, thrill 
Discordant through our frame; this is severe 
Unceasing trial. — But the more severe 
Th' appointed trial, the louder does it call 
Our courage up, and bid us instant arm 
With Heav'n-ward patience and submission meek; 
Trusting, when time and space shall be no more, 
To meet those souls from which they now divide us. 
If now possessing them, too happy here, 
This earth were Heav'n, and nothing left to wish. 
In mercy, God forbids us here to taste 
A long continuance of such happiness. 

There's yet another cause, celestial Klopstock, 
Why souls for friendship form'd can seldom meet. 
They must be cast in nature's finest mould 
Of the sublimer essence of creation; 
And such are scarce; — at intervals sent down, 
As were of old the prophets, to recal 
The baser herd to duty's sacred path, — 
To dress old truths in an attractive garb, — 
To show men " virtue in herself how lovely,"— 



252 

To explore the the depths of science, —to unveil 

The mysteries of nature, — and beyond 

The narrow sphere of human ken, to make 

Discoveries which might damp the reasoning- pride 

Of dabblers in philosophy, and prove 

That things they cannot understand, exist; — 

That other men have higher faculties, 

And thence might lead them to imagine, beings 

Yet higher in the scale of intellect: 

Truths which no human mind could ever grasp. 

These, to my weak perception, seem some ends 
By providence propos'd in sending down, 
At times, to earth, these high intelligences. 
And those were sure not answer'd, if they came 
At once, or in a cluster on the stage. 
Then other parts of space and time would want 
Their share of lustre; — and to fill the void 
If more of first-rate genius were produe'd, 
This world's affairs would run into confusion, 
Too near, too little to employ such minds. 
And thus, immortal Klopstock, souls like thine 
Of friendship worthy, because capable, , 

Can scarce expect to meet their like on earth; 
Sinco for the general good they come, and not 
Their private happiness;— better attained 
By staying in their native country, heav'n; 
And since this earth would be to them a heav'n, 
If with their equals only they convers'd. 

'Tis true thou wast, a little while, most blest; 
But 'twas to th' end that thy example, when 
Di ine command recall'd the treasure lent, 
Might prove an useful lesson to the world; 
Teaching, more feelingly than precept could, 
Loving as thou didst, to resign like thee! 



FINIS. 



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